


Ageless as Ice

by InkFire_Scribe



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Apologies, Battle, Birth, Breastfeeding, Death, Emotions, F/M, Family Feels, Fanservice, Feelings, Found Family, Genderswap, Grief/Mourning, Lots of Soft Romance, Love, Love Confessions, Manipulation, Marriage, Misunderstandings, Oaths & Vows, Pregnancy, Rejection, Romance, Rule 63, Secrets, Slow Burn, War, Weddings, fem!Bard, proposal, woman!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFire_Scribe/pseuds/InkFire_Scribe
Summary: Lyra Bowman thinks the Elvenking is an arrogant piece of work that needs to get off his high horse and take a look at the real world. Thranduil is convinced the new Queen of Dale is too reckless for her own good. And yet....
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 18
Kudos: 74





	1. Worth of a War

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a serious roleplay (what would happen if Bard was a woman and she clashed with Thranduil at the attempt to make peace with the Dwarves?) and it spiraled into fanservice as Lady Loki and I started having way Too Much Fun with the silly romance elements. 
> 
> So, if you like it, take a seat and enjoy. There's more than 36k words in this story.   
> If you don't like it, get out early, because this is going to be a long one.

"You wouldn't _ actually _ start a war over this, will you?" Lyra eyed the elf uncertainly. She respected him, but he seemed a little... unhinged. "This is just a bluff, right?"

Thranduil turned away, guiding his long robes to flow correctly as he swanned back to his seat. The evening was growing chill, and the shelter of his pavilion provided little heat. He'd have the servants light the braziers soon.

This woman required his full attention for the moment, though. The Dragonslayer, and for all intents and purposes, the new leader of the Lake Men. He'd be lying to say she wasn't fair, in her own way, though a bit masculine for his taste with her strong jawline, dark, deep-set eyes, and grim expression. It was an observation, he noted to himself. Nothing more.

"I never bluff." The Elvenking's deep voice was calm, composed. He arranged his silver robes about him, graceful, habitual movements he did not direct and barely noticed. "Perhaps you think me unreasonable? Is it unreasonable for a king to seek the return of what is his own? Do you not, Lyra Dragonslayer, seek much the same?"

Lyra grimaced, her nose wrinkling peculiarly. "Not at the cost of more lives. My people have lost enough, Your Majesty, and so have the Dwarves. To wage war now would do no credit to you or your people." Her coat, ragged and torn, hung loosely from her shoulders, as though she had lost a great deal of weight. In reality Thranduil suspected the coat had originally belonged to a man. He didn't blame her for wearing it, though. Humans had even less of a tolerance for ill weather than Elves.

Thranduil scoffed. She was well-spoken, he had to give her that, but she gave the Dwarves far too much credit. "There are thirteen of them. It will not mean war- only the promise of it, should they prove utterly mad. So they've barricaded themselves in the Mountain. What now? They have no food they didn’t carry from Esgaroth some weeks ago. They'll starve atop their hills of riches. How long can they last without seeking parlay?"

A servant peeked in the doorway, and Thranduil beckoned him over. "Wine for the Dragonslayer and myself. Light the braziers, and bring my evening robes."

The woman's brow furrowed as the servant scurried in to serve them wine, and a second lit the braziers. As arrogant as he was, Lyra had to admit to herself that he had a point. The Dwarves had to know that, though Thorin's hostile rebuttal made her worry about the eventual outcome of this... not-bluff. She studied the Elvenking as he lounged in his throne-like chair. He was thin and long in almost every sense, wafting here and there like a large, glittery feather. Lyra looked away with a sigh, and accepted a goblet from the servant.

"For now, I'll... defer to your superior experience. I hope it doesn't come to war, Your Majesty, for all our sakes." Raising her goblet as though in offering to whatever Valar might protect them from their own idiocy, she drank.

Thranduil raised his cup in turn, took a healthy draught, and set the drink aside. He rose briefly to allow a servant to remove his glittery silver outer robe and replace it with a heavier, fur-lined one he’d taken to wearing in the evenings. Both had impressive trains, which seemed slightly out of place draping across the weather-worn stones of the old courtyard.

Thranduil spoke softly to the servant in elvish, evidently sending him off on some task, before seating himself again with a sigh.

"In truth, my lady, you have more cause to be aggrieved than my people. It is for your sake that we came so swiftly. A few gems, while lovely to admire, will not finance a campaign such as this. I wish only for things to be made right. Gold to the Men of the Lake, as promised, and those things stolen from Dale by Smaug after the great inferno. It is not right that the Dwarves should profit from the misfortune of others. You know this. I come, my lady, only to restore the balance."

Before Lyra could answer, the servant returned, carrying a small bundle. He hesitated, looking uncertainly from the Dragonslayer to his king. Thranduil made a motion, and the elf moved forward quickly.

"Lady Lyra, my King Thranduil wishes to offer you a gift." The elf's Westron was heavily accented, something Lyra was noticing about many of the Woodland folk. It seemed it came of learning the language out of books.

The elf proffered the bundle and she glanced at Thranduil, confused.

"The King," the servant continued, "has noticed the state of your coat, and asked that I provide one more suitable for the weather. It is suede, dyed with indigo." Here, the elf seemed slightly apologetic. "The fit will not be perfect, but at least it will be warmer than what you have."

For a moment, she was stunned. Then, hesitantly, she touched the suede, dark eyes softening slightly. Her whole expression, in fact, softened, and Thranduil was startled to find the woman almost beautiful in the absence of grief or grim determination. It was odd to see that in a human.

"Your generosity is..." Lyra paused, withdrawing her hand without taking the coat. "It's very generous of you, my lord, but... no thank you. My coat... is precious to me." Her fingers brushed over the open collar, butter-soft with age.

Thranduil was surprised by this, having never had much attachment to any possession, least of all a garment. When another could be had at the snap of a finger, why should one cling to anything? Well, there were a few things... no. This was no time for memories.

"Not on its own merit, I think." All too obvious, now that the Elvenking considered it. "Was it your husband's?"

The servant withdrew quietly, setting the coat beside Thranduil's seat. He seemed to sense this conversation was not one he should be privy to, even if he hadn't actually been dismissed.

Lyra watched the servant leave before answering, apparently trying to regain her former grim expression without much success. "Yes. It was his." She turned, gazing at Thranduil with an unreadable look in her dark eyes. "Now that my home and barge are gone, my bow broken and my people scattered... this coat and my children are all I have left. I trust you to do what is best for our people... but I'll not lose any more."

Thranduil was silent a moment, studying her. "Without the means to rebuild your homes, to buy food and supplies, you will lose many more in the days to come, my lady. Think of that." His voice was gentle, not patronizing. "I want the best for both our peoples. Surely you know that."

He indicated she should sit, smiling placidly. "Take your ease, Lady Lyra. I mean to know you better in the days to come. We mustn't act as strangers."

She gave him a long look, then sat down with a sigh. A servant approached almost hesitantly, refilled her goblet and Thranduil's, then retreated quickly. It seemed that the Elves were trying to give the two as much privacy as they could manage, and for the moment, Lyra appreciated it. 

"I see that, and I believe you." The admission tasted bitter, and she took a drink. She didn't like to think that she, let alone her people,  _ needed _ the Dwarves' gold to rebuild their homes. In a way, she felt that she ought to have been able to manage without anyone's help. She didn't need anyone! But... the defiance drained out of her again as she thought of all the people that needed her, not the least of which were her own children. Bain and Sigrid and little Tilda - they needed her. Her people needed her. The survivors from Laketown, men and women alike, looked to her for leadership and guidance, and that responsibility sat heavy in her chest like a stone between her lungs. And while she might have looked to Thranduil for help, for support - she didn't trust the Elf not to look to his own needs and desires first. That was what folk in authority did to those who were 'lesser.' She'd seen it happen too many times not to expect it. 

Remembering the earnestness in Oakenshield's face that night in Laketown, Lyra silently cursed herself for believing he might be different. 

The Elvenking nodded thoughtfully. "We must learn to trust one another, Lady Lyra. These are dangerous times, and what alliances remain must be treasured. The Master of Laketown may have been a selfish and greedy pig of a Man, but you are one that leads by example. One Men would follow to the death, if you asked it of them.” 

Thranduil took another sip of wine, looking ever more relaxed. He looked at her, his eyes blue and jewel-bright. "Do me the courtesy of trusting me, Lady Lyra, and in days to come I hope we will become fast friends. Dale will be restored, as has been foretold, and you and I will boast the strongest alliance in the North."

Lyra lifted her dark head and studied the Elf for a long, silent handful of minutes. Her scrutiny was heavy, measuring him against an invisible standard. Whether she found him wanting or not wasn't apparent, but at length, she looked away, breathing evenly through her nose. The way her jaw tensed, her lips pressed together and turned downward slightly - the resemblance between this woman and her ancestor, Girion, was plain to Thranduil’s eye, which had seen them both. 

"Trust is not a courtesy easily extended, Your Majesty," she responded quietly. "but I will try."

This seemed to satisfy the Elvenking. "That is enough... for now."

He smiled charmingly, sitting back slightly in his chair. "Your husband - Valar rest him - must have been a great man, indeed, to have claimed a spirit so strong for his own."

He finished his second cup, but didn't set it down. She intrigued him, this woman. He wasn't quite sure what to make of her. In the manner of anything he'd not encountered before, any new thing or surprise, Thranduil was enraptured by her.

Lyra let out a short laugh, made harsh by the recent cold and inhaled smoke, and other such damaging elements inflicted on her recently. "My Hal was greater than anyone ever recognized. Even me. He won my hand fairly, though, and I honored him for it." Loved him, even, but that wasn't the sort of thing one discussed with strangers, even ones who wanted to become "good friends." She turned an amused eye on the Elvenking, and relaxed a little. The woman was of strong stock, and stronger constitution, but even she couldn't withstand the effects of elven wine for very long. And now that serious topics were behind them, the alcohol worked more quickly through her, loosening the tension in her shoulders and the grim lines around her eyes. 

"Oh?" Thranduil chuckled lightly, visibly pleased by the change in Lyra. "How did he win your hand? It must have taken a fair amount of work, if the effort was worthy of the prize." He set his small goblet down on the arm of the chair with a distinct metallic ring, an unmistakable signal no sharp-eared servant could possibly miss. Like magic, one appeared beneath the canopy, pitcher in hand. He refilled his king's cup skillfully, noted that Lyra's was still mostly full, and turned to go.

Thranduil spoke to him in elvish, and he nodded before withdrawing.

Lyra lifted an eyebrow at her companion and glanced pointedly at his goblet. She was unwilling to share how her husband had won her hand, but she was less unwilling to pry into the Elvenking's drinking habits. It seemed like he was used to this sort of thing. He certainly wasn't drinking to be polite.

"Oh, come now," Thranduil cajoled. "I am genuinely curious as to the courting practices of Men. We of the Woodland Realm have very specific rituals in matters of love."

Noting her apparent displeasure at the amount of drink he had imbibed, he removed his hand from the stem of the goblet and folded it on his lap with the other. The posture lent him a poised, leonine aspect, and his pointed ears and angular features strengthened the association. It was clear he was alert, quite in possession of his wits.

"Perhaps I have been too forward," the Elvenking said at last. "Forgive me. I would blame the distance between our two races, but I suppose it would be rude even among my own people to question a lady on her late husband - especially upon our first meeting."

The woman gave him a wry look, but thought better of commenting on his complete lack of tact. She supposed she didn't warrant tact, being neither royalty nor nobility. "It wouldn't be seen favorably, I suppose," she agreed, and took a sip of wine to fill the silence. "You told me when you first arrived that you didn't come for our sake. What made you change your mind?"

Thranduil hesitated. "A test, if you will believe me. I knew nothing of you. In that brief exchange, I determined what sort of person you were. Well-considered. Honest. Concerned for the welfare of your people, and at the same time, more than generous with your evaluation of Oakenshield's character." He chuckled lightly. "Did you believe I was the same as him? Interested only in riches at the expense of my honor?"

Lyra swallowed more wine than she'd intended, coughed a little, and lifted an eyebrow at him. "I had little reason to believe otherwise. You told me only of the jewels owed you, and you seemed," - _ still seem- _ "intent on bloodshed in order to get them. But perhaps I can't read intent as well as the Eldar."

"It is true there is little love lost between myself and Oakenshield," the Elvenking admitted. "All the same, I do not wish senseless ill upon him. He will undo himself should he continue in his current course. I simply hope to avoid him taking Laketown's refugees with him in his downfall. If he honors his agreement with you, then he will be left in peace to do as he wills."

Thranduil absently twisted a pale, lustrous lock around two heavily adorned fingers. "Surely you know my folk are capable, even now, of scaling his pathetic wall? If I ordered it, he would be dead before an hour had passed. But I do not wish it. Not if there is any chance he might still be made to see reason." The king's tone hardened a little, his eyes focusing on some point on the canvas wall beyond Lyra.

"If he has no compassion, no decency in him - if he would let helpless refugees starve rather than parting with a negligible amount of coin - only then will I seek such a course. And only to prevent the death of innocents."

There was a beat of pregnant silence between them as the woman scrutinized the Elvenking. "Wouldn't it spare more innocent lives to provide the coin yourself, Your Majesty?" It was bold, too bold, but Lyra didn't withdraw the comment. Instead, she interested herself in her goblet and conveniently avoided his gaze. 

Thranduil was clearly caught off guard. He stiffened, and did not speak for a long moment. When he did, his dulcet tones had faded and become hard-edged. "When I say 'negligible,' I mean in comparison to the rest of the dragon's hoard. Such an amount as would be required to rebuild a city and restart its economy would be far more than my royal treasury can spare. Despite appearances, my resources are not limitless."  _ Nor is my patience _ . These unspoken words seemed to hang in the air, charging the silence with an uncomfortable new energy.

Lyra set her goblet aside, the gesture as smooth and measured as she could make it. "Sad times, when the world depends so on that which is neither loyal nor capable of loyalty." She stood and gave Thranduil a bow. "Rest well, Your Majesty. I trust the morning will bring all things to light." The woman didn't wait for the Elvenking to dismiss her before she turned toward the pavilion entrance. A heart of gold, she thought to herself, was just as cold and unfeeling as the one made of stone. Just prettier to look at.


	2. Going South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:**  
>  There are some graphic descriptions of fighting and fatal injury in this chapter. If this is something you're sensitive to, skip down to the note at the bottom, where the chapter will be summarized.

War with the Dwarves. And these weren't even the Dwarves that had done wrong; they were only defending their kin. Lyra watched stiffly as the Elves and Dwarves advanced on each other, then turned away. Spurring her horse through the Elven ranks, she left Thranduil behind with one disgusted glance, returning to her people.

"Fall back!" she called to her pathetic group of fighting-men. Well, pathetic in comparison with these trained armies. She would risk none of her people on this nonsense. "Fall back to Dale!" Though there was some concern and confusion among her folk, they followed her as she rode away from what would soon be a battlefield. This was not her fight.

Thranduil was little troubled by the withdrawal of the Laketown forces, though he thought their leader was, perhaps, overreacting. Surely after the first wave of dwarves was routed, Lord Dain would see his folly and sue for an end to the fight.

It never came to that. Before the battle lines had closed, a loud shout and a bright flash of flame went up, all but blinding the oncoming troops. "Halt!"

Gandalf the Grey stood between the two armies, his staff upraised, tendrils of grey smoke twisting away from him on the breeze. "Do you not see your peril? Azog has come, you fools! I warned you, Thranduil, and you did not heed me."

The Elvenking laughed haughtily into the silence that followed. "Mithrandir, you must be truly desperate if you believe-"

A loud horn blast rolled over Thranduil's words, and the Elvenking's mirth faded all in an instant. A miasma of shock and horror permeated the army as surely as the wave of darkness over the black mass surging into the valley - orcs rushing rank upon rank toward the assembled armies, shaking the ground beneath their foul feet.

Lyra's horse whinnied shrilly, shying away from the noise and the oncoming enemies. The orcs were fast and the Elves were between the Lakemen and the Mountain. The Dwarves were surging forward to face this new foe. Lyra felt a cold shiver and knew she had a choice. Lead her men on to Dale, or stay and fight the orcs.

_ The Dwarves don't need to be protected. The wounded and young do _ .

"To the city! Pick up the pace, men!" As of yet, the orcs hadn't targeted them, but Lyra knew there wasn't much time. Those waiting for them in the city would need to be protected. That was her fight. 

The arrival of the orcs put things in perspective for Thranduil, who wasted little time once he realized the shape things were taking. At his command, the Elves raced, impressively ordered and uniform, to make new ranks behind the line of dwarves advancing on the orcs. Thranduil spurred his horned steed on into the midst of them, blade gleaming white, poised in his hand.

Lyra was right to take her people where they would be safe, he reasoned, though he wasn't entirely sure they'd be any safer in the city than amongst the ranks of warriors he commanded.

His suspicion proved accurate. The now-allied armies had scarcely engaged the foe before another horn blast sounded. A portion of the orc force split off from the rest and headed toward the city. Azog was nothing if not cunning. Divide and conquer.

The refugees would not stand a chance. Catching the attention of his lieutenant, Thranduil issued orders swiftly, and in a few moments, two elvish companies hurried to waylay the threat, led by their king. Even urging his great elk along, faster and faster, Thranduil wondered what he was doing. This could all miscarry badly if Azog sent further reinforcements into the city. It could be a trap.

But to leave Lyra and her people undefended...? No. This Dragonslayer - however much she distrusted and scorned him - was too rare a breed. He could not allow her to flee the circles of the world so easily.

It didn't take long for the city to turn into exactly the confused battlefield Lyra had been hoping to avoid. Her horse stumbled and fell, throwing her to the ground in the midst of a frenzied orc pack. They howled and leapt on her, only to be beaten back by the men who had followed her into the city. One hauled her forcibly to her feet, another pushed a sword into her hand. Lyra didn't waste time.

"Cor, take your archers and find a high building near the square. Dago, gather the women and children and get them to the keep. The rest of you, with me."

"Where are we going?"

"The square. We might be able to draw them in, give the wounded a chance to flee." Lyra's tone was grim, but her heart twisted at the thought of forcing her son to take care of his sisters. He would lead the family well, but he was still just a boy.

Orcs, goblins, ogres, trolls. Lyra chose her battles, weaving through the streets, avoiding enemies too large to be tackled without help. Despite what she had hoped, there would be no barricade. The square was overrun.

"For Laketown," she said firmly. "For our families." Lifting her sword, Lyra charged with a fierce cry. Death would come, but it wouldn't take her quietly.

By the time Thranduil reached the hard-pressed band of refugee fighters, the situation had become all but hopeless. His mount had fallen, as had a third of his forces, and the numbers of the enemy had not decreased by any notable measure. But she was there. She yet lived.

The Elvenking fought his way to her side, twin swords flashing silver-bright amongst the dark bodies of the orcs, his banner guards struggling to keep up. "My lady." He panted, a trickle of black blood stark against his pale cheeks. "There is nothing to be gained here. The city is overrun."

Lyra grimaced, her sword arm aching, her lungs burning. She wheeled to parry a blade she thought she heard hissing in her direction, but the area about her was filled only with allies for the moment. Her sword dropped to her side and she allowed herself a blessed few seconds of rest.

"My people," she panted, "are in the keep. The ones that can't fight. I wanted to give them time." Time to build a barricade, time to escape, time to do something, ANYTHING that might offer a fighting chance. She had no idea if her children were still alive, or where they were. They had to be alive. She would believe that until she couldn't anymore.

Thranduil's escort extended the respite, holding back the newest onslaught with unexpected success. The king pursed his lips slightly, considering. "If my forces can occupy their main press for a few minutes, would you be able to get your people out of the city?"

At Lyra's hesitation, Thranduil spoke more urgently. "You know as well as I do these orcs will give your weak and wounded no quarter. They'll slaughter your young and old alike, sparing no one. If you can get them out the south gate... you may yet have a chance."

If only. If only. "We have nowhere to go," she reminded him with a wince, trying to staunch the blood flowing from a cut under her left arm. "Even if I led them out through the south gate, we would be a party of wounded and elderly and children, on foot and without provisions. I might as well sentence them to death." Lyra felt each word like a leaden blade in the pit of her stomach. A swift death by the sword was preferable to starvation, but would she forgive herself if she didn't take that chance? They might... go to the Mountain, or into Mirkwood. With a grunt, she lifted her sword again, looking determined.

"If you die, I will  _ never  _ forgive you." Whirling, she scanned the seething mass of fighting bodies around them, chose the thinnest of the orc packs, and plunged in again. "Lakemen, to me! To me!"

Her words had scarcely processed when Thranduil was pulled back to the task at hand. A black-fletched arrow grazed his cheek, and the archer was dispatched an instant later, but it was clear the orcs were aware they had the Woodland Realm's king ensnared in their trap. The orc force surged with renewed fervor into the square, pushing back the valiant defense of the dwindling elven host, hopelessly outnumbered and becoming even more so with each passing minute.

Then something changed. A horn call, different than the others. Bolder, louder, clearer, nobler. There was only one thing it could mean. Thranduil could scarcely believe it. Thorin. Thorin must have been leading a sortie from the Mountain. He was quite mad. Suicidal. It was the  _ last _ thing he should've done if he had any sense of self-preservation at all.

And yet, it made a difference. Azog's strategy changed all in an instant. The main press in Dale weakened. Thranduil shook his head in astonishment. Within a handful of minutes, the attack on the square, and he imagined, much of the rest of the city, had dissolved into little more than a few stragglers, and streets piled with dark bodies.

A scout returned, doubled over, weak with pain. Thranduil noticed an arrow protruding from the elf's shoulder. "Lady Lyra has loaded the wounded into our supply carts," he wheezed. "They've made it out the south gate and are thus far undetected."

Thranduil relaxed visibly, nodding. "And Oakenshield? What of him?"

"He has rallied elves and dwarves alike to his side, and seems to be holding the orcs back. For now."

With the dwarves holding their own, and the others rallying to the King Under the Mountain, the battle seemed to be tipping in favor of the free folk. Lyra assured her men she would rejoin them quickly, and urged them to go on without her before darting back through the gate. If the orcs were preoccupied, then she would have time to round up the last of the survivors.

The Dragonslayer's expression became grim and hard as she looked through doorways and behind piles of rubble. Bodies and death everywhere, man, orc and elf alike. Such carnage ought not to have come here again, when the city had already seen such pain. So it was that she was intent on her search, and didn't notice the party of elves until they were quite close. Without a greeting or even a nod, she moved past them, the beginnings of relief easing tension from her jaw. Perhaps they had found all the survivors already-

"Mum?"

Lyra froze, a shiver of terror shaking her from top to toe. A second later, she sprang toward the weak form, propped against a crumbling wall.

"Mum? Is that you?"

"Bain." Lyra's heart couldn't seem to decide between stopping completely and galloping right out of her chest. It settled for lodging itself in her throat, and the woman blinked rapidly to clear away the heat pressing at her eyes. She needed to concentrate. She needed to help her son.

His arm and chest were both soaked in blood - if she could just close the wound, then maybe he would last long enough for one of the elves to help him. Lyra tore Bain's shirt open, desperate to help her son.

"You were righ', Mum. Need ta work on... footwork." Bain made himself smile, even as he shuddered, the cold air like fire on the open wound. Lyra tasted bile and saw black spots dance before her eyes. Bain's chest was torn open, from his right shoulder down to his navel, and his shield arm was curled around his own waist, holding in a wet press of bloody tissue that ought to have been safely inside his body. The woman's hands shook as she folded his shirt carefully closed again.

"After all this..." Lyra's voice broke and tears overflowed. "I didn't save you from the dragon to lose you like this, dammit. You just hold on, Bain, I'll get help. I'll make sure you get through this." She started to stand, but her son grabbed her arm, his hand slick with blood.

"Sigrid and Tilda - they're alive, Mum. Tell them I did my best." His smile was faltering now. "I promised I'd come back after I found you. But I did my best, okay?"

"No, nonono, Bain, don't say that. You'll keep your promise. I swear it. Just don't-" But his grip was loosening, his eyes losing focus.

"I love you, Mum."

"Bain, don't... please." But she knew it was too late. She held his hand, her boy who looked so much like his father, and watched him fade away. And when his chest stopped its struggle to breathe, his pulse stopped beating under her hand, Lyra's tears stopped.

Her breathing was deep and steady as she stood, eyes still wet, and turned blindly toward the Mountain looming beyond the wall.

"I'll kill them," she said softly, and one hand grasped her sword as though her arm wasn’t already one solid ache. "I'll make them pay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:**  
>  Lyra Dragonslayer thinks to avoid the battle by retreating to Dale, but is targeted by a contingent of orcs, which overrun the city as she tries to form a barricade to protect the wounded, young, and elderly. Seeing her peril, Thranduil charges into Dale to fight at her side, and through gumption and luck, they manage to survive until the orc force is withdrawn. But when Lyra returns to the city to search for survivors, she arrives in time to witness her son's last moments. The chapter ends with Lyra swearing vengeance, perhaps a little mad with grief.


	3. True Heart, True Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because only a true friend would stop you from being an idiot when it really counts.

Thranduil found her like this, dark as a stormcloud, eyes glassy and hard in her grim face. His entourage was nearby, searching the buildings and pathways for any orcs that might possibly be lying in wait.

"Lady Lyra!"

She was deaf to his call, neither slowing nor turning as she passed him by, rounding the corner. Her sword was in her hand, and there was no doubt in the Elvenking's mind now what her goal was. She was trying to get herself killed.

He caught up to her, but was reluctant to physically stop her. Who knew what she might do when she was like this?

"My lady," he tried again, extending a gauntleted hand, but not touching her. "My lady, what has happened? I may be able to help. Just stop a moment, and speak with me. Please."

That last word surprised him. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd pleaded with someone. It felt strange, foreign. Confusing.

His words seemed to reach her, and though she didn't stop, her pace did slow a little and she turned her gaze on him. Four words were all she needed, uttered in the sort of calm tone one knows is never actually calm, but quite dangerous.

"They killed my son." Her explanation given, Lyra turned her eyes back upon the Mountain, knuckles whitening around the hilt of her sword.

Thranduil's heart sank. This could be even more difficult than he'd thought. "My lady, your people need you. You cannot abandon them. Your son would not wish you to do this, and you know it." 

He did finally put a hand on her shoulder, pulled her around to face him. Rough handling, maybe, but she needed to listen. Meeting her gaze earnestly, he shook his head. "You may yet flee this life today, Dragonslayer. But not like this. Not like this." 

"And who are you to dictate my death?" The words came out a feral snarl, and the woman stood rigidly, teeth bared. Though she didn't want to admit it, didn't want to  _ think _ it, he was right. There were still folk that needed her. Just then, she hated them for it. Hated that responsibility she'd shouldered in leading the Lakemen.

"I will avenge my son - I didn't survive this long just to lose everything. I would have them know what pain is." Lyra could feel herself trembling under his hand, the weight of the gauntlet seeming to pin her in place. Everything hurt, but everything was also numb and distant. It was as though the ache in her arm belonged to someone else, and the grief raging in her chest were a hundred miles away, a mere rumor in the midst of desolate isolation. Valar save her, she was as emotional as her daughters, and ought to have known better.

Thranduil caught the waver in her resolve as it flickered across her face, and loosened his grip on her slightly. As grim a mask as she wore, she was still possessed of a mother’s heart.

"Your son would be better avenged through your continued leadership. What difference will you make, throwing your life away for a few moments' satisfaction?" He could see she was beginning to listen to reason, but there was still a dangerous, agonized passion in her dark eyes that told him she might yet lose herself to grief and fury. "Stay with me if you'll not be persuaded to return to your own. I know you do not trust me fully, but trust me in this. Your son will be avenged before the end. I swear it."

Lyra took a shuddering breath and threw a desperate look at the Mountain. Between the gates of Dale and the great twisted doors of Erebor, her enemies were waiting, all bloodlust and senseless fury, so easily killed, swept away under the feet of their own wretched kind. Mindless brutes. Would but they spill their dark lifeblood and shake in fear of her wrath, the shadow of her blade. Lyra would have cut a hundred throats to avenge Bain, would gladly have thrown her life on the mercy of the Valar if she could.

"Damn you," she hissed. "I'll live yet, and if my son is not avenged, I'll take it out of your hide, Elvenking."

The battle unfolded differently than any had anticipated, and Thranduil was content to give full mind to the small force he commanded in Dale. What combatants tested their resolve were sporadic and weakly directed, as though the city itself were an afterthought. The hottest center of the battle, it seemed, was moving off toward Ravenhill.

Still, it was challenge enough to hold the city. The elven force continued, steadily, to dwindle. A well-placed arrow here, a lucky strike there. What the enemy lacked in skill they often made up for in numbers and persistence, and more often than not there were armored trolls were among their ranks.

Ten times, Azog's forces came against the main gate, or slithered through the many gaps in the walls and came at them through ruined avenues, and ten times the little knot of elves routed them. The Elvenking kept a close eye on Lyra, seeing that she didn't separate herself from the rest or do anything uncommonly reckless.

The moment she succeeded in thwarting his efforts, though, he was less prepared than he'd counted on. She had made it almost halfway across the causeway, slaying furiously as she went, but hadn't noticed the dark shapes on the pale horizon, making toward the field with obvious intent.

Bats. A vast, dark cloud of them, moving quickly, fanning out.

"Lady Lyra!" Thranduil snatched a bow from one of his elves and in an instant had an arrow on the string. The nearest creature fell with a shriek, but Lyra was surrounded by orcs and not capable of making it back to the walls in a hurry.

With a wondering shake of the head, the Elvenking dropped the bow, pulled both his swords, and charged into the fray. The last sounds he heard before the low bellows and grunts of the enemy drowned them out were the alarmed cries of his entourage, clearly thinking he'd lost his mind. Perhaps he had. 

And yet, impossibly, it worked. The narrow causeway proved easier to clear than anticipated, as orc after orc lost its balance and plunged into the gap below, shoved or slashed or sliced by Thranduil, or knocked over by their fellows. Still, by the time the Elvenking reached Lyra, the bats were upon them in a drove Thranduil felt was a bit unfair, considering there were so many other places they could have gone on the field. Short of picking her up and making a break for the rather meager fortifications, he had few options now besides trying to defend them both, and he accomplished that with astonishing - if not entirely effortless - efficacy.

"I meant what I said," he hissed between strikes. "This isn't vengeance. It's madness."

Killing the bats was easily the most unpleasant task he'd had all day. Decapitating them midflight often resulted in being showered with dark, greasy gore, and a stench one might best describe as moldering death. They would both need a thorough scrubbing when this was over.

Miraculously, and in no small part thanks to crack archers on the walls, Thranduil and Lyra managed to reach the relative safety of the main gate once more, just in time to see more dark, flying shapes soaring over the hills beyond.

"It cannot be." Thranduil wondered at his vision briefly. Could anything so unexpectedly fortunate happen on a day like this? Indeed, it could.

The eagles had come, and with them, as it turned out, the great skin-changer himself, Beorn.

If the tide hadn't been turned before, this final stroke was more than enough to do it. In a mere handful of minutes, the enemy was routed and fleeing the field in droves, scattering like roaches in the presence of sudden daylight.

Thranduil turned away, strangely moved. His swords, dark with blood, were still in his hands, and he sighed, sheathing them both in one fluid motion. He spoke to one of his elves softly, and the warrior bowed before moving off, taking with him roughly half the remaining force.

"Your son... is avenged, Lady Lyra." The Elvenking turned to her finally, assessing her condition with a quick glance. She seemed mostly unhurt, incredible as it was. But her eyes were vacant. Revenge would never bring Bain back, and she was beginning to understand that.

Lyra forced herself to focus on Thranduil, taking a shuddering breath. After a moment, she started to clean her sword mechanically.

"Aye," she agreed dully. "Seems hollow, doesn't it, with so many dead?" Victory at so high a cost hardly felt of victory at all. Her son, dead. And what of her daughters? Lyra closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought. What if they, too, were gone? "You don't need to stay. Your people need you."

But Thranduil knew there was no leaving her alone in this state. That was something he simply couldn't conscience. "We will have news of your daughters soon," he said simply.

She continued to polish her sword, and he smiled slightly. Nothing was disposable amongst the impoverished Lakemen. Whereas he had given up his blades and scabbards as lost causes, tainted irreversibly by blood and filth and stench, she cared for hers. Loyally, as though they were old friends. It was something to admire, he decided. It was consistent in all she did.

Lyra paused in the midst of buffing the nicked blade. Though she didn't look at him, there was a palpable feeling of surprise radiating from her. The moment passed, and she shivered, rolling her shoulders tensely.

"Why are you doing this? I didn't ask for your help. I have nothing to give you in return. You have nothing to gain." Lyra's voice dropped to a whisper, and she took a minute to breathe, calming herself again. It felt as though the ground were crumbling beneath her feet, the world reeling out of control, far beyond her ability to bring back into order.

Thranduil's reply was soft. "I know it must be hard to believe, but I do sometimes act on others' behalf without expecting anything in return." Silence settled between them again, and Thranduil studied her reaction carefully. It was hard, he knew, when she was convinced he acted only in his own best interest. He wasn't really sure why it mattered to him, that her impression of him change. But it did matter, and that was enough.

"When I said I wished to know you better, my words were not idly spoken. You are like no one I've ever met, Dragonslayer, and as you must know, I have met many people in my time. Call it selfishness if you will, but I could not allow you to perish before your time."

Lyra watched him for a long, quiet moment. Her hands shook a little as she started polishing her sword again. "I..." Her jaw flexed and she swallowed before speaking again. "Thank you... Majesty." She sounded shaky. Like she might be thinking about crying.

An elf cried out, alarm and fear in his clear voice. As the two leaders turned, it became immediately apparent that his entourage was too far away to help. One of the bats had survived. Previously trapped under several of its dead companions, the creature had struggled free, and was now flopping toward them, one wing broken, mouth open, huge teeth bared. There was no screeching or screaming - the beast was almost silent.

Lyra saw Thranduil reach for his weapons, only to realize he'd already passed them off to someone else. Dragonslayer, now Batslayer. The woman took an unsteady, lunging step forward, letting the weight of her sword drag itself downward in an uncontrolled arc. With a soft  _ snick _ , the bat's head came cleanly off, juddering across the uneven ground as the jaw snapped open and closed in its last throes. Lyra watched dispassionately as it twitched and flailed, right up until the slavering fangs chomped down on her ankle.

"My lady-!" Thranduil's warning died in his throat - too late. He'd been a fool to think it would all be over and done with so neatly. Lyra staggered back weakly, shaking the bat's head clear. Blood streamed from her ankle, soaking her boot.

The bats were bred for war. Panic rushed into the Elvenking's heart like ice water. The venom would spread quickly, even more quickly through human blood than elven. She'd be lucky to last an hour.

"Sit down. Now." His tone was commanding, and yet half-plaintive. No one could have mistaken the waver of fear in the latter word. He moved behind her, assisting her into a sitting position. "You must not move, Lady Lyra."

Turning to one of the elves who had called out to warn him, he gestured insistently, barking orders in elvish. They'd have to hurry. Any delay fetching his supplies could mean her life.

The pain started as a sharp, hot stab. She could feel the blood flowing down into her boot, the punctures like burning needles. Then it started to spread. Even as she stumbled and Thranduil caught her, fire was drifting up her leg, into her calf, collecting around her knee like mist in the morning breeze. Aching, burning - then twitching.

Lyra let out a soft grunt, as the muscles in her leg spasmed painfully from slack numbness to rigidity and back again. She hadn't thought it would live long enough to bite her. Even when it got close, the idea that the creature was a danger to her hadn't truly penetrated. Now that death nipped at her heels, she found it not quite as friendly as it had seemed while watching her son fade.

An elf nearly tripped over himself as he rushed to his king's side, bearing the tattered remains of a tooled leather bag and saying something in hasty Elvish. Whatever it was, it didn't sound like good news.

Thranduil looked slightly stricken, but nodded slowly, taking the bag. His pavilion had been burned, his supplies largely scattered or destroyed. This meager pouch of herbs and bandages was all that remained.

Issuing another quiet order in elvish, he turned back to Lyra. He'd settled her against a sloping piece of rubble, comfortably as possible, and now he had no choice but to work with what supplies he had. There was little time.

Kneeling beside the Dragonslayer, he put his hands on her boot, gingerly loosening the leather wrappings that held the top it together. In a moment, he had it off. The extent of the bites was made plain to him, then, the punctures oozing blood and a pale greenish fluid.

"You must calm yourself," the Elvenking advised, steady blue gaze flicking up briefly to meet her trembling one. "Slow your breathing. Do not allow your heart to race."

He hesitated a moment, preparing himself for the humble act to follow. It was not dignified. But it was necessary.

"This will be painful. Try not to move." Thranduil's strong hands tightened, one around her lower calf, the other over her foot. Leaning down, his silver cloak pooling behind him across the bloodstained stones, he took one final preparatory breath and pressed his lips to one of the punctures. It might have been a kiss, if a strange, bloody, needful one. The Elvenking's eyes were closed, his features hard with focus, long, pale hair half-concealing his face.

The elves murmured wonderingly in the stillness. The seconds crawled tensely along.

Then Thranduil drew back stiffly, turning his face away. He spat, skillfully launching a mouthful of dark liquid into a shrub some feet away, and then moved quickly to the other puncture. By his own craft, he worked to separate poison from lifeblood, though his power stopped short of removing the venom altogether. It moved too quickly for that, no doubt the result of the creature's foul breeding. What remained of the herbs, he hoped, would do the rest, if she was half as strong as he judged her to be.

Lyra was tense when he finished - tense, but not moving. She forced herself to breathe slowly, though she was still trembling. There were little dark spots flashing and dancing in front of her eyes as she watched him, listening to the pounding of her own heart. The pain had spread, drifting up from her knee to her hip, then into her stomach, where it was twisting around in her abdomen and about the base of her spine.

She considered saying something, anything - even a thank-you. But fuzzy explosions of color and wild emotions buzzed around in her head, little more. Lyra grit her teeth and breathed determinedly through her nose. There was no way she was going to give up now. Maybe it was just her contrary nature, but she was a stubborn creature, and unwilling to let anyone or anything else dictate her fate.

Thranduil finished, sitting up once more, and it was to his credit that his face betrayed no displeasure. His lips were bloodstained, the color somewhat ghastly against the unusual pallor of his skin. He wiped his mouth on the edge of his cape, and extended a hand to receive the water-flask that was quickly pressed into it by a waiting elf. Rinsing his mouth thoroughly, he pulled a handful of dried medicinal herbs from the tattered pouch and chewed them into something of a paste.

This was all the most basic of healing procedure, techniques he hadn't had to use since the war against Angmar. It was all far less polished, less precise than he preferred.

Shooting Lyra a look that clearly conveyed his next action would most definitely be painful, he gently pressed the paste against her wound, securing it with a clean strip of cloth one of his elves had prepared. This would work to further draw out the venom, if all went well, and speed the ultimate healing process. If all went well. That was the tricky part. Every healer knew it was virtually impossible to save someone who did not wish to be saved. She had to be willing to fight, had to cling to life. If his knowledge of fell poisons was accurate, she would be delirious with fever soon.

"I have done what I can for you, my lady." His voice was soft, a bit tired. "You must do the rest."

A quick exchange of elvish provided the information Thranduil sought, and he turned his attention back to Lyra. "My scouts report your people are out of danger, and on their way back to Dale. A small party of orcs pursued them, but it seems they were routed easily enough." He smiled faintly. "Your daughters are safe."

Lyra's lips curved in a smile as she let out a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh. She shook, dark eyes beginning to lose focus, but the smile remained, defiant and now fearless.

"I was... I was… wrong about… about you, Elvenking. You’re a true… a good friend." Her fingers twitched as she clasped his hand as firmly as she could manage. "Was an… an honor… to fight beside you. Take care of them... Thranduil." His name seemed a magnificent hurdle to her, and with that effort spent, she let her head fall back and concentrated on breathing. The world was sliding out of focus around her, spinning hazily one way, then the other. She would see them again, but in the meantime, she was sure her Elf friend would look after her folk and keep them alive. As much as he could.


	4. Healing

Recovery from the Battle was a long, gruesome process, and in many cases, those collecting and carrying the dead looked no better themselves. Many had died in the clash with the orcs, and a portion more faded from sickness, wounds, or exhaustion. Winter set in fast and hard, locking down men, dwarves and elves in ice and snow.

The Dragonslayer, ill as she was, protested vehemently when Thranduil (and even her own kin!) insisted that she and the other wounded be moved into the Mountain until enough of the buildings in Dale could be shored up to house them. Thorin Oakenshield, himself grievously wounded in single combat with Azog, welcomed the people of Laketown and, more grudgingly, the elves that were tending to their needs.

Yet even with what aid the elves could provide, recovery could be sped only so much. Lyra remained bedridden for several weeks, her periods of lucidity unpredictable amid the episodes of delirious, exhausting fever. Those who were present, her daughters included, learned more about the Dragonslayer's many fears than any had wanted to know. At length, the fever broke for good, and while her thin and weakened body took time to recover, her spirit chafed at its perceived captivity.

"If you're bringing me any more of that tea, Galdir, I swear I pour it down your - oh. Thranduil." Lyra had the grace to look a little embarrassed, though she felt no need to explain that she had thought he was someone else. "No one told me you were coming." She sat, propped up on many pillows and looking rather like a skeleton wrapped in flesh. Her bony fingers clenched around the blankets, the only indication that she disliked being seen as she was. "I thought you would have gone back to your forest by now."

Thranduil smiled. It was good to see her lucid, despite her frail, emaciated state. "I have business here yet. My forest can wait." He chuckled lightly, the sound low and pleasant. "I see Galdir has been keeping you well supplied with the tonic I prescribed." He cocked an eye at the wooden tray beside her bed, crowded with half-empty brass cups. Evidently it was easier to fetch new cups than to wash the existing ones and refill them. "Foul-tasting, I know, but it is doing you good."

Utter seriousness pervaded his features once more, and he pulled up a low stool beside the bed, gracefully seating himself. How he was able to keep his long silver robes under control was anyone's guess. "You must be well and whole before you are fit to guide your people once more," he said, leaning forward earnestly. "Dale shall be as it was before the dragon came - so the soothsayers have long claimed - but there is no hurry. We can hardly do much with the weather as it has been." He sighed. "Frozen earth complicates things. Many dead to bury, and it is no small task to dig even a single grave."

Lyra's eyes darkened at the thought, and her bony chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. Grief made her look like a dead thing, but she did her best to shake it off. The moment had passed, and once again her attention was on the Elvenking at her bedside.

"I meant to thank you." The somber air became heavy about them, weighing on the woman's thin shoulders. "I... almost lost myself." Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and Lyra felt a curious stirring in her chest. It was an unfamiliar feeling - a mixture of gratitude and something she couldn’t identify. "I owe you and your folk a great deal, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to repay that debt." Lyra let her dark eyes drop to the blankets again, as though relinquishing a heavy burden. It was odd to trust him so completely. Trust was a foolish thing.

Thranduil nodded, something like hope stirring in the starlit wells of his eyes. "Perhaps, Lady Lyra, when the times are less dire and your city is rebuilt, you might consider... repaying that debt. A visit to the Woodland Realm."

Lyra looked up searchingly, and Thranduil smiled. There was no mistaking the fondness in his expression now. "It would honor me. Truly." After a moment's hesitation, he reached for her hand, and for perhaps the first time, Lyra saw chinks in his seemingly impenetrable confidence.

It was a small gesture, this contact between their fingers - his full of grace and strength, hers thin and cold. And yet it expressed fully and truthfully where words would have fallen short. So it was with all matters of the heart. Thranduil knew now the reason he had gone to such lengths to save her. A bit selfish, perhaps, but not completely so.

Lyra didn't pull her hand away. Didn't dare. Suddenly, everything was uncertain. The world was falling apart again, and this time she didn't have the excuse of venom in her system or fever-induced delirium. Part of her longed for the comfort of knowing he would take care of her. The rest of her was _terrified._

"Maybe," she agreed, after an interminable silence. Lyra kept her gaze on his hand. It was larger than hers, though not broader, well-formed and strong. Looking at that hand, she felt vulnerable and... imperfect. And it bothered her.

Her fear did not escape the incisive Elvenking, of course. But she was bold enough of a spirit that he was certain she would tell him if his tacit overture was... unappreciated.

"I require naught but that you think on it, my lady."

He'd scarcely finished speaking when the curtain behind him drew aside partially, and two young faces peeked in. Girls. One was significantly taller than the other, having almost reached her full height, and had Lyra's brown hair and eyes. The other was young yet, and her hair was lighter, her eyes blue and full. Lyra withdrew her hand quickly at the first sign they were not alone, but Thranduil thought it unlikely her daughters hadn't noticed.

"She's awake." The little girl grinned up at her sister, tugging on her hand to pull her inside.

"Hush, Tilda." The older one looked slightly embarrassed. "She's speaking with the king."

"But Sigrid-"

"Tilda, no." Sigrid held her eager sister back, glancing apologetically at Thranduil, who had turned halfway in his seat. "We'll come back later."

"It's alright, children." The Elvenking smiled, beckoning to them. If he was at all caught off guard, he betrayed nothing. "It would do your mother good to see you."

"Are you sure?" Sigrid looked uncertain. "We can come back."

Thranduil chuckled. "Family first, business after. I can wait."

Lyra shot her companion a grateful look before extending a hand to her daughters. Sigrid let Tilda go, and the little girl bounded across the room, throwing herself into her mother's lap.

"You were sick for a long time, Momma." Tilda gave her mother as tight a hug as she could manage. Lyra's face lost a little color, but she rubbed the little girl's back, making herself smile.

"I know, sweetheart. I know." The grim, cold Dragonslayer became soft, her tone gentle and loving. "I'll be better soon, my darlings. Don't worry."

Sigrid took her mother's hand, seeming almost afraid to hold her too tightly, lest she shatter the fragile bones in her mother's thin fingers. "You'll rest, won't you, Mother?"

"Of course I will. I'll rest, even if it kills me."

Thranduil stood, giving the little family some room. Hope was alive in their hearts, tiny hints of yellow-green peeking up from beneath the blackened earth.

As he watched the girls fuss over their mother, he was struck by a sense of cold distance in his own life - how of all the elves he knew, all the people he surrounded himself with day by day, so very few of them actually truly cared for him. It was their duty to serve him - to die for him, if such was their lot - but it was not out of affection for him, or any personal loyalty. Even his own son was separated from him in his own way, and had been for a very long time. This scene before him threw his life into sharp relief. Troubling.

"I must... take my leave of you, Lady Lyra," he said softly, straightening his robes. "I will return when I can. By your consent, of course."

Lyra glanced up at him, a sort of hardness returning to her face, a guarded quality that wasn't present when she looked at her daughters. It wasn't, however, the same grim expression she wore when she looked at almost anyone else. For a moment, she seemed torn.

"I... would like that. Come again soon."

As Thranduil exited the room, as gracefully as ever, he heard little Tilda ask with a quiet sort of squeak; "Ma, why're you lookin' at him like that? Is he special?"


	5. Repaying Visits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than usual. Enjoy!

Lyra allowed the armored guardsman to assist her in dismounting, wincing as her sore legs took her weight. The elf braced her a moment, then bowed and retreated, seeming to understand her distaste for weakness. She had been weak quite long enough, thank you kindly. 

Back in Dale, rebuilding was underway and as the weather became warmer, they were able to cut more stone from the north quarry to shore up buildings and damaged walls. Since her condition was still less than ideal, her newly-formed council had sent her, their Dragonslayer Queen, to finalize and strengthen alliances with the dwarves and elves.

Now the woman stood before the gates of the Woodland palace, uncertainty chilling her blood. Erebor had been intimidating enough, despite the dwarves' deep respect and gratitude toward her as the Dragonslayer (and how she was beginning to loathe the title). This palace was just as impressive and even more intimidating. At least she had been able to offer the dwarves something in return. Her folk were fishermen and budding farmers, artisans and herders. They had nothing the elves didn't already have in abundance.

And none of her nervousness could possibly have anything at all to do with Thranduil's personal, earnest invitation. Nope. Nothing at all.

The gates opened and out strode the fair-haired Woodland prince, smiling warmly as he bowed to her. It was still awkward to be bowed to at every turn.

" _ Mae govannen _ , Dragonslayer. We've been expecting you."

Lyra nodded wordlessly and tried to convince herself that this wasn't a bad idea. That was just her nervousness talking. Her entourage (three warriors and a scribe) gathered behind her and together they and the elven prince moved through the tall, slender gates of Thranduil's palace. 

Where Erebor had been deep and resounding, all polished surfaces and angles and clever bridges over bottomless chasms, the Woodland palace was a place of graceful curves, arches, and twisting roots. It was an odd concept, for the home of the Elvenking to be underground, but she supposed it was easier to defend than the alternative. The twisting spiral patterns of wood and stone gave the palace an air of living mystery.

It seemed a long time before they were led into guest rooms and informed the king would see them after they had a chance to freshen up a bit. Lyra nodded again, feeling poor and small. Fountains and arches and thick, luxurious rugs were all she could see in the opulent room before her. Honestly, it seemed far more than anyone could possibly need. Lyra thought back on her simple wooden home in Laketown, and wondered if these folk ever thought about the life she had come from. Noble blood or not, she was a bargewoman. A fisherman's wife. She sank onto the bench nearest the door and sighed, letting her head drop into her hands.

Trade negotiations. Alliances. Contracts. How simple life had been when she only had to worry about feeding her people, or bringing them firewood.

She was only left alone for a brief spell, time enough to bathe, change into the courtly clothes provided for her, and fashion her hair into something that resembled an up-do. It felt strange, all of it. Even  _ she _ felt strange now, wearing a dress more elegant than any she'd ever seen, let alone owned. She wondered if she could even walk beneath the many layers of gold and green gossamer silk.

She was considering whether or not she might be able to simply clean up her traveling clothes enough to pass muster when there was a knock on the door.

The prince again, she thought, and steeled herself for the inevitable flood of personal inadequacy the meal was sure to be. Swallowing heavily, she made last-minute adjustments to her hair and dress and opened the door.

It wasn't Legolas, and that fact alone was enough to thoroughly undo all her preparations. The tall figure in draping silver bowed gracefully, blond hair immaculate beneath an understated crown and framing deep, clear blue eyes. King Thranduil was as resplendent as ever. 

He made more sense here. That was a strange way of putting it, but it was the first that came to mind. This was where he belonged. A different world that she was briefly passing through.

"My lord," she choked out, realizing the silence had persisted far too long.

The Elvenking chuckled. "You are lovely, Lady Lyra. Truly." When she tilted her head questioningly, he went on. "I laugh only because you seem so utterly shocked to see me. I hope I don't look as ghastly as your face suggests."

"No, not at all. You look perfect." Even though her tone implied 'as always,' she turned several shades of pink, appalled that she'd actually said that out loud. Lyra could feel dark wisps of hair tickling the back of her neck, and resisted the urge to try to fix it. There was no use, she told herself. She would look shabby next to Thranduil no matter what she did. The woman felt thoroughly uncomfortable in her skin. She didn't belong here.

"It is expected of me." The Elvenking shrugged. "This... 'perfection,' as you call it. It is not as easy as it seems, but I will spare you the details of my morning torments." He moved around to her side, quick and graceful as a cat, and extended an arm to her.

"Come now, my lady. I do not mean to burden you overmuch with dread," he glanced at her sidelong, tone distinctly playful, "but we have much to discuss."

Lyra accepted his arm with a forced smile. Her fingers were digging into his forearm, she was sure, and the woman attempted to calm herself with several deep breaths. 

She said nothing as the king guided her down the hall toward what she assumed was  the dining room. It wasn’t really a room at all, but a veritable cavern, lit with a dazzling array of colored lanterns and large, warm fires. There were elves with instruments, playing soothing music, servants bearing gleaming silver dishes, and an assortment of graceful, royal-looking guests, all of whom appeared to be elven. Lyra nodded politely as she was introduced, and the names thrummed through her like fire, names out of old tales and songs. Galadriel of Lorien, Glorfindel, and Elrohir Peredhil. There were, she thought, two others, but by then her mind was spinning. 

"Allow me to introduce Lady Lyra." Thranduil pulled out a chair for her beside his own at the head of the table, and with a further flush of embarrassment, the woman sat down.

"We have heard much about you." Lady Galadriel's smile was welcoming, if restrained. A formidable presence, if ever there was one. "Our host has told us of your valor during the battle and your slaying of the Great Worm. Do not fear. Your place among us is well-earned."

A strange thing to say, thought Lyra, only slightly comforted. Were her thoughts so easy to read?

She glanced at her host, and felt his fingers brush gently against her hand, as though comforting her. Some deeply-buried part of her mind insisted she needed no comfort. Not from him, not from anyone. On the other hand, their dinner companions were figures of legend, and Lyra wanted nothing more than to disappear into her room and stay there until this whole ordeal was over. 

_ Whoever decided that I would make a good queen was clearly either half-blind or half-mad. Maybe both. _

"You honor me, my lady," Lyra murmured, bowing her head to Galadriel. The pause had seemed much more significant than it had been. She watched as the others sat. Dark-haired son of Elrond, lord of Imladris. Glorfindel, dark-eyed warrior, visions of the endless Sundering Sea in his face. And the golden-haired Lady of Lorien, her blue gaze penetrating, reading all. The other two appeared to be fair-haired, like Thranduil, and she wondered if they, too, were as old as the trees, remembering a time before spiders and dragons and orcs. 

A glance to her right told her that Thranduil was still standing, surveying the table as though it were a map of his domain. His expression, though austere, didn't seem as haughty or superior as it had when they had first met. Lyra paused mid-thought and checked the table again. She sat at Thranduil's direct left, across from Galadriel, who sat at his right. On Lyra's other side sat Elrohir, then Glorfindel across from him, and the other two. The final seat, at the foot of the table, was left empty. 

_ Just how important do they think I am? All I did was stick an arrow in a dragon's hide and fight when my people needed me to. _

The servers filed in, loading the tables with dishes of such sumptuousness, for a moment Lyra half forgot to be nervous, so awed was she by the offering. The roasted meats, swimming in thick, bubbling juices, smelled particularly heavenly, and the Dragonslayer couldn't have known such fare was not typical of the high elves.

Thranduil's palate was more in step with the human one than that of his kindred, a fact he recognized and was little troubled by. The Woodland Realm was not Rivendell or Lorien, and he had no desire to pretend it was.

There were greens, too, of course - salads of unparalleled freshness tossed with vibrantly colored vegetables and wonderfully tangy vinaigrettes - and a variety of other dishes Lyra didn't recognize, but was nonetheless impressed by. Herbed breads, fragrant sauces and pastes, even melons filled with fresh fruits. She couldn't imagine eating like this on a daily basis; or a yearly one, for that matter.

When the meal was well underway, the dorwinion served and some of the dishes cleared away to make room for new ones, Thranduil raised a toast.

"To Lady Lyra, and the end of the reign of Smaug."

The woman blushed again, resisting the urge to sink lower in her chair, as the elves raised their silver goblets in perfect synchronicity and echoed Thranduil's sentiments.

It was only after they had once again lowered their goblets that Lyra dared speak. Well, maybe 'dared' wasn't quite the word she was looking for, but it certainly took a good deal of gumption to open her mouth after such recognition. 

"Perhaps it's... ungrateful of me to say so, but I don't think I deserve any of this." She indicated herself, her dress, and somehow managed to encompass the whole room in the gesture without making it seem vague or awkward. "There's nothing particularly special about me or about my deeds. I only did what was necessary, as anyone would have done in my place." Her tone, no longer abashed, became earnest. 

Lyra was acutely aware of the gazes of Thranduil's other guests, weighing and measuring her as though she were a portion of grain for a hungry family. The queen of Dale lifted her chin slightly and let her eyes meet those of the elves closest to her. Her heart stopped racing, and she felt more comfortable with this subtle tension than the easy, courtly companionship of moments before. 

Thranduil in particular was studying her intently, but it was Elrohir that broke the silence. 

"I would not presume to speak for all my kin, but I would venture to say it takes a spirit of remarkable strength to have steady hands in the face of a dragon's wrath." The dark-haired elf exchanged a glance with the fair-haired lady across from him, and Lyra thought she saw a faint smile cross the Lady of Lorien's supple lips.

"As an archer and warrior," continued Elrohir, "I commend you for your bravery."

There were murmurs of agreement from around the table, and Lyra flushed, glancing at Thranduil again, as though seeking some sort of confirmation. 

The Elvenking echoed her glance, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You are overwhelming her with your praise," he said lightly. "I sense she desires we proceed to the matter at hand."

"Quite right," said Glorfindel, nodding in agreement. "It is best we address the matter now, before the evening wears on too long and our wits are dulled with wine." A more serious mood seemed to settle over the assembly as those at the other table straightened, listening more intently.

They spoke of trade, of alliances, of borders. Of the responsibility for patrolling and repairing roads, which Thranduil seemed displeased with, but agreed with Galadriel on almost every point. The talk turned to the dark and foul things of the world, and what to expect now that the Dragon and the Necromancer had so stirred the creatures of Morgoth. 

The Lady's gaze landed briefly on the Dragonslayer, and Lyra found that her mouth had gone a little dry. She wasn't afraid, though - this was war. This was something she could handle.

"What should we watch for?" she asked, her tone steady and strong. "And who should we contact, should a threat materialize?"

Another tiny smile flickered across the Lady's face, and she allowed Glorfindel to answer. "Unusual concentrations of foul creatures. We do not expect anything... conspicuous. Still, keeping a watch would not go amiss."

Thranduil answered her second question, which brought a crooked smile to her lips. She swallowed it hastily. It wouldn't do to let her host know how... endearing it was, to see him jump in like this. Nothing undignified was said, the air of grace not broken, but he seemed somehow  _ young _ in comparison to the others at the table, which was an odd thought.

"Should you see anything amiss, my lady, I trust you'll alert me immediately."

"Of course, Your Majesty." And if Lyra's smile had reappeared in her tone, that was no one's business but hers.

Thranduil gave a nod, eyes closing briefly in a gesture of gratitude. "Dale is in capable hands."

Even as he spoke these words, his fingers again brushed past hers where they were resting on the edge of the table. It had been a natural movement; a stretch, perhaps. And yet, no accident. That much was clear. The Elvenking's face betrayed little, though the knowing look in the starlit eyes of Lorien's queen was, perhaps, more telling.

A moment passed, and then Thranduil signaled for more wine. With it came desserts, and other delicacies Lyra had never seen before. Talk of the rising evil went on for a time, but was ultimately drowned in drink and fine food. Anyway, the message had been given. There was no point in having it darken what remained of the feast.

The meal concluded in due course, Lady Galadriel the first to announce intentions of retiring for the evening. Lyra assumed Thranduil would dismiss her when he no longer required her presence, and therefore lingered until the last guest had gone. The Elvenking didn't seem intent on sending her away, though, as his blue eyes lit on her with a spark she'd only seen bare hints of over the course of the evening. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Did you find the meal to your liking?" he asked mildly, fingers wrapped absently around the stem of his goblet. Rather habitual, that. "I hope you were not put off by the manner of my guests. Some elves are not given to revelry, and turn such feasting as they allow into affairs of business and council. I often wonder if the very concept of celebration confuses them."

He laughed softly, the sound of it warm and comforting in the silence of the room. Or maybe she was simply more at ease away from the incisive gazes of so many elves. Hard to say.

Lyra smiled hesitantly, not entirely sure whether she was being entertained as a welcome guest or if she ought to have excused herself when the others left. The dining hall felt oversized now, without the rest of their party, and she felt again that unidentifiable tension vibrating between them. She remembered it from Thranduil's final visits to her while she was recovering in the Mountain after the Battle. It had confused her then and it confused her now. She really didn't know what to do with it. 

"I don't think I've found anything here not to be to my liking, Your Majesty," she consented with a slight nod. "I never doubted that you kept an excellent table." And for now, she would just... not comment on the other elves being confused by celebration. In truth,  _ she _ was confused by it, but admitting so seemed somehow like contradicting him. 

The silence that followed was not as uncomfortable as she feared it might be, and Lyra relaxed enough to reach for her cup (which was filled with water, as she had learned her lesson about elven wine some time ago). 

"Might I... ask a question?"

Thranduil's eyebrows twitched upward ever so slightly, and he gestured invitingly for her to continue. Lyra hesitated a beat before speaking again.

"Could you tell me... the true reason for your invitation? Surely it wasn't simply to applaud my small feats in battle." Lyra felt herself relaxing a little as she spoke, slipping back into the role she was most comfortable in - the cynical tradesman, the woman who would tolerate nothing more or less than the respect she had earned with her own two hands.

"You are, of course, correct." Thranduil nodded, looking as though he'd quite expected the question. "While you doubt your value as an ally, you doubt even more your value as a friend." The Elvenking graced her with a smile. "I enjoy your company, Lady Lyra. You seem to have forgotten that."

He stood, gathering his robes up in that perfectly fluid, graceful manner he'd doubtless cultivated from thousands of years of draping himself in shimmering finery. "I am going to walk. Would you care to accompany me, milady?"

Lyra let out a sigh that made her sound a bit like a horse, and stood, frowning at him. "I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or frustrated. You're a terribly frustrating person, you know." His grace was only serving to remind her of how much she really didn't belong here. Looking down at herself, the woman shook her head at the yards of fabric hanging about her legs. Completely impractical. 

If her words troubled him, Thranduil didn't let on. "You are not the first who has said as much. Come. It has grown stuffy in here."

He led her from the room, and once they'd passed the arched doorway, offered her his arm. She took it, but not without the slightest bit of hesitation.

The kingdom was beautiful, details worked into every inch of wood and stone, and many of the walkways overlooked channels of the swift-moving underground river, or passed over it in curving stone bridges. Bridges with no railings, Lyra noted somewhat uncomfortably, reminding herself that a people as graceful as the elves had no need for such ‘mortal’ precautions.

"You are ill at ease," the Elvenking said presently, his voice languid, echoing mutely off the stone. "After all you have endured this past year, such small things as social pleasantries and impractical clothes are enough to discomfit you?"

Lyra shot her companion a glance, and resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business. For one thing, that would be rude, and for another, there was no point in telling him to be less observant. It would be like telling the Lake not to be so wet.

"Perhaps it's a mark of how resilient I am, that such small things can still affect me," she retorted, and regretted letting her tongue grow sharp. She looked away, stepping off the bridge they had just crossed and pausing on the landing to peer down at the river far below them. The water frothed, coursing over rough stone with wild abandon. She almost wished to join it, rushing haphazardly back down to the Lake and beyond to the River Running, to lands she had never seen. 

"This isn't my world," she confessed quietly, hoping to make up for her previous comment. "I don't belong here. All the posturing and posing - my ancestors may have known how to do this, but I'm just...." She trailed off, words failing her. What was she, anymore? She didn't know. Maybe that was her problem.

"Just what?" Thranduil nudged her logic along a little. "Just a dragonslayer? Just a woman who has ensured the survival of her people? How many Elves have done as much?" He glanced at her pointedly, his eyes glimmering in the diffuse light. Where it was coming from was anyone's guess. "If you were not worthy of my company, you can be assured I would not have granted it to you."

The distant rumble of the river filled the space between them as they watched each other, and at length, Lyra looked away. He didn't understand. Or maybe she just hadn't communicated clearly enough how completely out of place she was here.

"In any case, a visit cannot be so very taxing," Thranduil assured her, and extended one slender hand to her, indicating they should move on. Lyra hesitated before taking it. She said nothing, however, as they continued on their way through the apparently deserted, not to mention  _ endless _ Woodland Palace.


	6. A Simple Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was both my favorite and least favorite chapter to write, since it's such a heart-wrenching experience. Ugh. I love them so much, though. Such drama. Such words!
> 
> My thanks to Lady Loki for being willing to craft this with me. It's been a lot of fun.

At length, they came to a circular area paved with flat, gray stones. The ever-present murmuring of water grew to a low roar, and Lyra could see the rolling white mist of a waterfall a little beyond the level of a waist-high hedge. One of the widest channels, it seemed, cascaded through an iron grate high above, plunging down to regroup some seventy feet below. It was a stunning sight.

Thranduil seemed to recognize precious little would take her mind off how out of place she felt here. This might at least temporarily distract her.

"Beautiful, is it not?" He leaned over the hedge to catch a glimpse of the water below. "Here. Have a closer look. That's what these hedges are for - so you can look down without fear of falling in."

"That's... thoughtful." Lyra leaned forward, gripping Thranduil's arm for support as she peered downward. It was an awesome experience; the plunging, rushing water, the cold spray flying into her face, the wind whipping about her like a wild thing. Again, that odd longing to join the free, uncontrolled torrent stirred in her. With some reluctance she rocked back onto her heels again, unaware of the loose strands of hair sticking wetly to her face.

She turned back to Thranduil, realizing with a start that he was standing closer to her now than he had been. With a smile, he swept the strands from her face and tucked them behind her ears, nimble elven fingers barely grazing her skin.

Their faces were very close now, eyes locked, she craned her neck a little to compensate for their difference in height.

"There is longing in your gaze," Thranduil whispered, his dulcet voice nearly lost to the roaring beside them. "But not, I think, for me. What do you wish for, Lady Lyra? I would grant it, whatever you would have."

The space between them was breathless, the whipping, roaring, spraying water seeming suddenly muted. Lyra shook her head slightly, uncertain whether it was the pounding of her heart or the sudden feeling of light-headedness that prompted her to renew her grip on his arm.

"I... wouldn't ask it of you, my lord." Even with his excellent hearing, she wondered if Thranduil would be able to hear her over the waterfall. She shook her head again. He wouldn't understand - she hardly understood it herself. It was just the desire to be free. Perhaps she was noticing it more here, where she felt trapped in a mold she didn’t fit. On the other hand, it was possible that her new position as Lady of Dale was what provoked the feeling of confinement.

"And why not?" Thranduil pressed, lifting her chin slightly. "Do you believe I am incapable of helping, or simply that I wouldn't understand your request? How will you know for certain until you speak it?"

The effect of his eyes, radiantly blue and star-bright, so close to hers was that she could scarcely think. Her thoughts had been muddled before; this wasn't really helping matters.

"Open your heart to me." His voice was halfway plaintive now, and very tender. None of the cold detachment he employed so often with others. "I am not so stern a judge as you seem to take me for."

Thoughts slipped away like cold fish through numb, fumbling fingers. For some reason, breathing was difficult, too. The space in her chest seemed to be taken up by a claustrophobic sparrow, fluttering wildly.

"I don't think you're stern," she blurted, feeling entirely unintelligent. "It's just a mask." Lyra prayed the flush of heat in her cheeks wasn't visible, and knew the chances of that being true were slim to none. It was the truth of her thoughts, even if it wasn't the information he'd asked for. This wasn't necessarily an improvement over the last topic, though.

Hastily, she cast about for words that might possibly harness the desire she'd not wanted to express a moment before. "I just - I want to be... free." The words sounded so inadequate compared to the aching, pulsing roar that shuddered through her, the cold sting of the wind on her face.

"You feel trapped." Thranduil leaned down a little, his hands seeking hers with the gentle grace of elvendom. "You do not desire the position you now hold. It is a heavy burden for anyone, no matter how strong."

His gaze darted to her lips once more. Lyra shivered slightly and hoped he hadn't noticed.

"And what if," the Elvenking said softly, tilting his head a little to the side, "you no longer bore this burden... alone?"

And for a moment, his offer hung in the air, suspended by its own boldness. Or was it bold, coming from a king? Perhaps it was generous.

"I don't understand," answered Lyra faintly, dizzy with the possible implications of his words. "What are you offering?"

"Search your heart." Thranduil’s gaze was beseeching now, flickering with the barest hint of disappointment. "If you do not know, then my offer was misplaced. I did not wish to offend, only to be truthful."

"But... but you're an  _ elf _ ." This was such a drastic, pathetic understatement that Lyra started to laugh. "I don't know what sorcery you're working in me, but if I tried to search myself, I'd probably lose my way." 

She shook her head and pulled away, mind spinning, her slightly off-kilter laugh dying on her lips. This was so completely unlike her first courting - her husband had been all quiet strength and awkward endearments. This put her off guard, off center, off balance. It was as though her own heart were completely beyond her control. Was this the influence of Thranduil, or of the elves, so foreign and graceful and utterly alien?

"My lady-" Thranduil's voice held deep hurt, and Lyra again felt the insane urge to throw herself over the hedge and into the wild water beyond.

"No! No, Thranduil, I'll not stand for it! I don't know what you're doing, but by the Valar, I'll not make a choice when you say nothing of your purpose." Strength returned to her, and Lyra felt steadied, though the power was heady. She turned to face him again, coiled, ready to throw herself into a fight. "King or no, I'll accept no suit unless you've won that right. Prove yourself, as my husband did, and then we will speak of who is to shoulder this burden."

Thranduil's hurt seemed tempered by shock. It was clear he hadn't expected such an outburst.

"I am not, and will never be the man who was your husband," he said at last, his face gone slightly paler than usual. "To expect that of me is fair to neither of us." He took a step back, his gaze and hers leveling off slightly. "I did not mean to cause offense, but I see that I have. You must excuse me, Dragonslayer. I sense you no longer desire my company, if indeed you ever did." He turned to leave, his hair flashing pale gold as it settled back over his shoulders.

"So first you refuse to state your suit, then you put words in my mouth. Are these the deeds of an Elvenking, or of a man who thinks himself snubbed?" Lyra was taking refuge in her caustic wit, and she knew it wasn't wise. Indeed, it was unnecessary and hurtful, but she didn't know what to do, beyond goading him into action. This was what she did, what she had always done. It worked with her husband, with the Master, with the dragon, with the orcs - why not with an elf? "I respect and trust you, Thranduil, but this smacks of cowardice. Prove me wrong."

Thranduil rounded on her, eyes flaring with sudden anger. "What could I prove to you that I haven't already? What more do you desire of me that I have not offered?" He circled her slowly, features twitching with the beginnings of rage. "I will not beg! Nor will I be manipulated. You think me a coward and a man snubbed, but in truth it is a coward who flings insults without thought, who wounds when a man is at his most vulnerable."

Lyra bristled, and silently blessed Thranduil for giving in to her, letting her have this fight she so desperately needed. Her hands balled into fists as she tracked him with her eyes, shoulders thrown back, head up. She was a wild thing, cornered and rebellious.

"You have yet to state your purpose, Elvenking. Hints and gestures and vague offers - tell me, where is the proof when you take no risk? Perhaps you have all of eternity to perform this dance, but life for me is short. If you haven't the courage to risk your pride to win my hand, why is it worth winning?"

"A pretty question," Thranduil spat. "One I may long consider." His eyes were piercingly dark now, it seemed, his brows knit in displeasure. It took an equally fearsome constitution to long withstand the formidable weight of his wounded fury. The Elvenking's voice sunk to a low hiss. "As for there being no risk, I suppose you must think it easy for me to take on a human consort before the eyes of my equals and court? To risk the support of my people in following the leadings of my heart? You know  _ nothing _ ."

He turned away once more with a swirl of his robe, and this time did not hesitate. "Well, I'll not make this mistake again. Fare you well, and free of me."

"You never asked me to be your consort. You've not said a word about your heart, only of mine." Lyra knew she really ought to have been quiet, but her pulse raced from the weight of his gaze, and she was starting to feel a little nauseated. What if she was truly driving him away, ruining a necessary alliance? "You speak of these things as though we'd discussed them at length, when you've made nothing apparent! If you think me some courtier, a fine lady who plays with hearts and minces words, you know nothing of me at all! Tell me what it is you want, be frank, be blunt!"

Lyra pursued him, unwilling to let this rest, not until she'd exhausted every chance, every opening. She needed to know, for sure. His consort. He wanted her to be his consort. She refused to dwell on it. Her mind would go blank again if she did.

Thranduil didn't slow, though she didn't have much trouble keeping up. "I wanted nothing from you but your honesty," he said tersely. "Instead, I received insults and attempts at manipulation." He did not look at her now, but kept his gaze straight ahead. "No, Dragonslayer. I want nothing from you now. Only to be left alone."

Lyra felt his words like a dart. He wasn't willing to ask. He refused. Well, if he wouldn't ask, then he would receive what he wanted.

"Then... farewell, Elvenking." She stopped and watched him continue to stride away, robes billowing, hair rippling. In a way, she felt as though Bain were dying again, though her son came to mind only in connection to the feeling. Barren loss, that's what it was. He had chosen to abandon her, decided that asking for her hand outright wasn't worth the risk.

The stone beneath her feet was smooth, cool. Lyra turned and went back the way Thranduil had brought her. In short order, she was hopelessly lost in the maze of twisting pathways and arching bridges, and had to request directions from an elven guard. By the time she had returned to her chambers, her feet ached. These silly slippers hadn't been made for such extended walks. Swiftly shucking the elaborate dress, Lyra pulled her traveling garb on once more, briefly noting that the garments had been cleaned and patched while she was at dinner.

In no mood for sleep, the woman prowled out into the hall and wandered until she found the stable where her company's horses were being kept. Oh, how she longed to mount up and fly away. Responsibilities enough to sink her barge anchored her to this place, and Lyra ground her teeth, hating the helpless, trapped sensation.

"My lady?" The voice belonged to the young servant assigned to care for her mare, and she didn't need to turn around to know he wore a worried expression.

"Don't call me that. My name is Lyra, and I will not be addressed by any other."

"Is... is there something wrong?"

Lyra didn't answer for a moment, pressing her forehead to the strong, warm neck of her dappled grey mare. "Yes. Yes, there is. We shall be leaving on the morrow, after I finalize trade agreements."

"My lady, er… Lyra?" He sounded confused, now. "I thought we were going to-"

"It doesn't matter what we were going to," snapped the Dragonslayer, feeling almost guilty for taking out her frustrations on the boy. "What we  _ will _ do is leave on the morrow. Go alert the others."

The morrow came more quickly than Lyra wished. As much as she wanted to leave and have done with the whole ordeal, her duties as Queen of Dale required other business of her ere she could put the Woodland Realm behind her.

The meeting with Thranduil went about as expected. He spared her only the briefest and coldest of glances, spoke to her through one of his trade advisors, and signed the agreement, his quill biting away at the parchment in a script she suspected was very unlike his usual handwriting.

She was tempted to say something to lessen the anger he doubtless felt toward her, but decided in the end saying nothing was probably the best course of action. And anyway what did it matter? They were unlikely to cross paths again. This... spell he'd worked on her would fade, and she could go back to the way things were. Back to the familiar. The things she knew and was accustomed to. The work she had come here to do was done, and things were returning to normal.

The thought only occurred to her as she was saddling her horse that she might have been making a mistake. But that was ridiculous. Probably just guilt at having done what was necessary. A brief exchange with the scribes she'd brought along pushed this from her mind, and soon her entourage was on its way, the tall, narrow gate in their sights. On a strange impulse, she turned in the saddle to look back. Did she imagine he might be there somewhere, amongst the gardens and statues and fountains, watching her go? No. Why would he be? Surely he had better things to do.

In truth, Thranduil  _ did _ have better things to do. But that didn't stop him from peering out the vine-camouflaged window above the outermost courtyard. She couldn't see him. Nor did he want her to. All the same, he found himself mastered by the sudden urge to catch one last glimpse of her before she was gone from his life forever. It would be the last he would need, he assured himself.


	7. Do Nothing in Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe we wrote this chapter in a matter of 2 or 3 days, pinging Big Emotions back and forth between us like ping-pong balls. I'm almost sorry I had to cut the chapter where I did, except the suspense is SO GOOD. 
> 
> Anyway... enjoy. :)

The elven kingdom could more or less run itself, with the exception of a handful of highly delicate, very political matters. Thranduil attempted, in as much as he ever had, to distract himself with a plethora of things that either needed to be done or that he usually enjoyed doing. The handful of political matters were resolved within a month. He opened the palace for a feast, overseeing the decorating and cooking personally. He took an active hand in the care and breeding of his battle-elk. The one he'd lost in the Battle had been the lead bull, and his loss was sorely felt. Now the herd seemed to be recovering, led by one of the great bull's many progeny. He would need to bring in fresh cows, to diversify the bloodlines and avoid inbreeding.

Still, there was only so much for a king to do. Idle hours were filled with frustration, as the insult the dragonslayer had dealt to him continued to weep and fester in his spirit. Thranduil took to ‘sampling’ the new wines as they entered his kingdom, determined to ignore the pain, if he couldn't make it go away. Days crept by, weeks sluggishly stretched into moons, the stars circled silently overhead.

That was the state of things when the letter arrived.

_ To Thranduil, Elvenking, Lord and Protector of Mirkwood, greetings. _

It was from Dale, and the words were almost painfully formal. It didn't sound at all like Lyra. His suspicions were confirmed when he glanced at the bottom of the missive and found the signature was that of an advisor. He discarded the letter with a disgusted snort, and almost missed the scrap that fell from the folds of parchment. But the keen eyes of the Elvenking were not clouded by the wine that kept his mind from wandering. That little scrap was dirty, wrinkled and worn from the telltale worrying of anxious fingers. He stooped to pick it up curiously. It was blank. Thranduil turned it over, and found two words scrawled in a slanted, spiky script he recognized as Lyra's handwriting.

_ I'm sorry. _

Those two words were as powerful as any he had heard or spoken in any of the languages of elves or men. They pulled at him such that the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. To escape it, he took up the letter and read, barely taking in more than one word in ten. An invitation to return to Dale on some political pretense that seemed hardly worth the space it took on the paper he held. No. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing her power over him. 

Yet, as the days passed one after the other and he grasped at plans and quietly delegated tasks, his resolve crumbled steadily. Confronting her directly was the only solution. He would visit on “routine business” and divine the truth in her eyes, her words, her actions.

He'd not be eviscerated and humiliated again.

He sent no word ahead - she mustn't be given time to prepare - and made his preparations discretely even amongst his own court. Thranduil's entourage arrived at the gates of Dale one evening as the sun's glow began to fade beyond the western border of the woods. The king had not spoken a word since departing the doors of his palace, his mind consumed, swirling with possibilities and anxieties.

A shout went up on the wall and the gates opened swiftly. Thranduil held his peace as his chief advisor relayed the message he'd been assigned by his king, one speaking of business and trade agreements and future diplomatic relations and other such excuses that seemed plausible enough when he'd written them weeks ago. Now they sounded ridiculous, even from the honeyed tongue of his advisor. Still, Lyra's captain seemed to sense nothing amiss and ushered them in with haste that felt almost of fear.

Perhaps he knew of his lord's desire to reconcile with the Elvenking. Or perhaps he was simply intimidated by the cold blue of Thranduil's gaze; the king was used to having that kind of effect on lesser men. Either way, it was a short time later that he and his party were escorted into the courtyard of Lyra's house - an underwhelming, but nonetheless well-appointed structure that had belonged to Girion before being almost wholly destroyed in Smaug's attack. Thranduil noted it was somewhat more modest than it had originally looked, if memory served. No gilded cornices, and what decorations there were, were simple and unpretentious. Perhaps this was Lyra's wish. It seemed very much in keeping with her nature.

One of Lyra's guards rushed inside to inform her of her guests. Thranduil dismounted his horse (none of his preferred steeds were ready yet to bear him), stretching stiff muscles and waving off the groomsman who meekly offered to take his tired beast.

The wait for their hostess was relatively short. Lyra and one harrassed-looking man in the courtly garb of an experienced advisor came down the stairs into the courtyard at a pace that was perhaps a little too quick to be considered dignified. The woman herself was dressed in work clothes, made of fine cloth but drab in color and spartan in design.

"My lord Thranduil!" she called, voice a little strained, a little rough, but otherwise strong. "We hadn't expected you. Is there a reason for this visit?" She came to a stop before him, and now that she was closer, it was clear her appearance wasn't as careless as it seemed. Her clothes were clean, her hair untidy but at least partially contained in a short, dark tail. Perhaps she had been distracted from some important task by his arrival.

Thranduil turned his gaze upon his advisor, who strode forward and delivered much the same message as he had to the captain at the gate, though seasoned now with words slightly more flowery and circumlocutory. Lyra waited patiently until he had finished, and her eyes slid to rest briefly upon Thranduil. There was, perhaps, the faintest haze of disappointment in them. Or maybe he was just imagining that. She nodded slowly and returned her gaze to the advisor.

"You may inform your king he is welcome to stay as long as he wishes. I look forward to discussing all he has come to address. I would also invite him to dine with my household, should he desire my company, but he should by no means feel any obligation." Her tone had become formal, and Thranduil could only guess it was simply because he had made it clear he was here on business. Nothing more.

The advisor bowed. "You are gracious, Lady Lyra. I shall confer with my king and give you an answer."

Lyra nodded and withdrew slightly, her expression stoic. Thranduil wondered, briefly, if coming at all had been a mistake.

"You heard her offer, my lord. What is your choice?" His advisor's conciliatory tone grated on his nerves. Schooling his expression, Thranduil nodded cooly, and the advisor conveyed, in flowery, unnecessary words, that the Elvenking would be pleased to share a meal with the new Queen of Dale.

Lyra's lips thinned a little, and it was clear to Thranduil's keen eyes that this displeased her. But  _ why _ ? Did she not want to dine with him? Or did she dislike the courtly manners of the advisor? Her advisor, a frazzled man with flyaway brown hair, said nothing, either for his lady or for himself.

"Lord Thranduil honors us,” said Lyra woodenly. “Kartan will show you to your quarters - I hope you find them satisfactory."

"I am certain they will more than suffice." The advisor bowed once more, glancing uncertainly at his king. Thranduil whispered his horse's name, and the beast turned to follow him as he moved off toward the stables.

"We shall, uh, meet you presently, Lady Lyra." The advisor's parting words sounded a bit puzzled, as if he wondered what was really lurking beneath the surface and whether he'd just gotten himself into an awkward situation.

The guest quarters were pleasantly appointed, if a bit dim, and Thranduil watched his attendants set aside his chest of carefully folded garments and prepare the room to better suit their king's needs. A dressing screen was brought from one of the other rooms, and Thranduil spent a good half-hour freshening up. Riding, however comfortably, was a taxing business, and keeping up a high standard of grooming all but impossible. 

He intended to be at his best for dinner. He chose one of his more courtly robes, though a darker, charcoal silver rather than the dazzlingly bright one he typically wore for such occasions, and a simpler silver crown. Simplicity seemed to be more appealing to Lyra, he reasoned, though he was unsure why he felt the need to impress. He wasn't here to woo her. He was here to uncover the truth.

When he descended to the dining hall for supper, Thranduil noted the curious layout for the tables. His own hall was occupied by several, for the royal party, the lesser nobles, the officers and select guards, the high-ranking servants. Here, there were only two. Long, freshly-oiled wooden things that seemed very understated, yet nice in the sparsely-decorated hall. As he watched, Lyra's advisor chatted amicably with an officer of the guard, and a manservant gestured excitedly as he related a tale to one of the very few nobles present, a young man in Gondorian colors.

"Would my lord care to sit?" asked his servant guide politely, and indicated the shorter of the two tables. Thranduil nodded and swept past the unfortunate servant as he made his way to the table. It was only as he approached the table itself that he saw Lyra having a fierce discussion with girls he recognized as her daughters. Twice, she pointed down the passage they stood just inside of, clearly telling them to go. He wondered why. Was it not the custom for the royal family to dine together?

The Dragonslayer turned to join him at the table and gifted him with a tense smile. "My apologies, Lord Thranduil, for keeping you waiting."

"I was not inconvenienced." Thranduil's voice was quiet, calm, and revealed little.

Lyra indicated he should sit, and as he did, the manservant abruptly finished his story and raced off to the kitchens. The advisor and captain, too, concluded their conversation and joined the table. It was a rather scanty group, all told, and felt incredibly sparse. Thranduil wondered if Lyra anticipated the conversation to take an unexpected turn, and thus had excluded her children from the meal. Or if they knew something she feared they might disclose.

The meal came, nowhere near as opulent as the one they'd shared in the Woodland Realm some months past. Again, simplicity and thrift were law here, under the careful leadership of Lyra. The Elvenking remembered dining with the Master of Laketown on a few occasions and being rather put off by the fact that the man feasted while the rest of his people were barely scraping by, many starving. It was one of the first things he'd admired about Lyra: finding herself in a leadership role, she took the responsibility seriously and did not abuse the privilege.

As the group began to tuck into the meal, the advisor began to speak, treading a carefully composed trail of "business matters" Thranduil had previously composed and presented to him as the sole reason for the visit.

In truth, the business  _ was _ legitimate. There were a few matters here and there that required clearing up, smoothing out. But by the time the advisor had finished listing off the trade matters and moved on to the diplomatic ones, Lyra's eyes were glazing over. Thranduil noticed.

"You find this business... dull?" he said quietly, though the advisor, as previously instructed, kept speaking (and managed to hide a bit of disgust at the realization he was being used as a distraction). All part of the plan, but not a plan the poor advisor was completely privy to.

Lyra glanced at him in surprise, a briefly guilty expression crossing her face. He could only assume she was embarrassed at being caught so obviously disinterested in the business of the realm.

"I won't insult your intelligence by saying I find it fascinating," she replied, just as softly. The woman shot him another furtive look. Was he imagining an anxious expression there? "I hope this wasn't your only reason for coming."

Thranduil met her look, lips hinting at a cryptic smile. "You were expecting more...  _ urgent _ business, perhaps? Or am I simply unwelcome to arrive under all but the most dire of circumstances?"

The advisor seemed to notice the attention of those at the table drifting from him to the Dragonslayer and her kingly guest and began talking more loudly.

"This business with the most recent battle may not be the last we see of the Orcs. It would behoove us to prepare some form of strategy so as to promote mutual readiness in the event of another attack..."

The Gondorian looked uncomfortable, and interrupted the advisor with a question of his own. Something about what threat there might be to his own people following the recent incident with the Necromancer. Thranduil heard little of it, his attention almost wholly fixed on Lyra, studying, evaluating. Testing.

"Urgent... wasn't precisely the word I would have used." She tried to hold his gaze. There was fire in her, strength, but also a new sort of sadness. Under the weight of his bright, sharp gaze, Lyra looked away. "I guess the word I was looking for was... personal." She looked up at him again, as though she couldn't make up her mind whether to meet his gaze or not.

"Personal?" Thranduil repeated the word softly, sifting it through his mind. "I came in person. I could have easily sent someone else in my stead. And you're clever enough to know this... ‘business,’” he threw a glance at the advisor, who was still answering the Gondorian's question, "isn't nearly important enough to bring me here on its own."

The Dragonslayer’s eyes dilated slightly, the change almost imperceptible against the dark irises. "I wouldn't... presume." The words were almost muttered, the facade of formality now completely gone. Lyra lowered her gaze to her almost untouched meal and took a bite, clearly not at all hungry, despite the savory scent of the hearty fare.

"A dangerous thing, presumption." The Elvenking sipped at his wine casually, more out of something to do rather than any desire. Compared to the vintage he was used to, this was like water, thin and dull. He scarcely tasted it. "Guessing at all, it would seem, is the province of fools. One has to be absolutely certain before one... makes his move." Thranduil's expression was enigmatic as ever, his tone cool.

And in that moment, as wine and food were partaken by the two royal parties, it seemed a gulf yawned suddenly between them. Lyra no longer tried to meet his eyes at all, but kept her head bowed over her plate. She said nothing, though Thranduil sensed a shift in the previously close atmosphere. It wasn't at all in the right direction, either. At least, that was what his traitorous heart told him.

The next thing he noticed was the eyes of everyone at the table quite unmistakably fixed on him. The advisor seemed to have played his last trick and was no longer able to hold the others' attention.

"I would... raise a toast," the Elvenking said quickly, lifting his goblet. This might be the only thing to divert their suspicions. "To Lady Lyra, and the city she has rebuilt from ruin. A bright future for both our peoples and harmony between the lands we protect."

There was little enough hesitation as the rest of the assemblage raised their cups. The guard captain cried "here here" heartily, and as he drank, others followed his example. A swift glance at the lady herself revealed little more than Thranduil already knew. She was upset, likely with him. The fact that this distressed him even slightly was not something he would admit even to himself.

"And to King Thranduil," intoned Lyra, taking such a firm grasp on her goblet that her knuckles started to whiten, "that he might find what he seeks."

This seemed only to confuse her retinue, and Lyra drank alone, though she seemed either to not notice or not care. Setting her cup down, she stood, her chair scraping loudly in the now-silent hall.

"Carry on," she said, giving her followers a slightly apathetic wave to indicate they should eat. "Take your ease. All I have is at your disposal." With that she turned, erect in spite of heavily bowed shoulders, and made her way toward the passage where Thranduil had earlier seen her arguing with her daughters.

Following her, however much the idea tugged at him, was not an option. Not in front of her guests, anyway. They would likely take the wrong idea. Even if he was sure it wasn't any of their business. That meant the evening was over, and he had little use for the rest of the meal. He'd not come here to feast, after all.

"I fear I too must retire, dear guests," he said softly when Lyra had gone. "It has been a long day and an even longer journey. Do stay awhile and enjoy the feast," he got up, graceful as always, "and do not let this parting sour the mood."

Leaving his advisor to be the reluctant focal point of the mealtime conversation once more, he slipped off to the guest rooms.

This would require time. He'd gathered much from Lyra, despite the spare, guarded nature of their conversation. Nothing less than a night's contemplation would do to examine every last nuance of word and expression. In the morning, he deemed, he would better know how to proceed.


	8. Manipulation

Except, when morning came, he was no more sure of how to proceed than he'd been the previous night. Long examination of what he had learned, and relatively little rest, had produced only silent confusion, and emotions tangled beyond hope. What he had thought dead and passed, or at least numbed by wine (some of which he was grateful now that he'd brought along) was in fact as alive as ever. And, while attempting to bandage his own bleeding heart, he found to his great frustration that he felt  _ guilty _ .

How  _ dare _ that woman inflict such a base emotion on him? He was Thranduil, Elvenking, he had lived long before her ancestors had built their miserable city, and would survive long after she and all her folk were dead and forgotten! His righteous indignation, however, didn't seem to stir him the way it ought to have.

Thranduil paced the room, from window to wall, from wall to door, from door to bed, from bed to window. It was a relatively spacious chamber, though not even close to the airy opulence he was accustomed to. He paused at the window as the sun broke over the horizon. Below, he could see the spreading start of a garden, a few rather pathetic, scraggly plants struggling to survive in the thin, scorched soil. To the left, he glimpsed a slice of the courtyard, where even now he could see and hear the guardsmen training with bows and shortswords.

He had been about to turn away and resume his pacing when his keen ears discerned a change in one of the sparring pairs below. One was apparently intent on killing his partner, while the other was either inept or unwilling to strike back. Leaning out the window to look would have been completely undignified, so Thranduil propped himself against the sill, the better to get a good look at what of the courtyard he could see.

He located the mismatched pair just as the inept one tripped and fell. Quick as a viper, his opponent turned and challenged another, sword cutting the air with furious speed. The other guards were beginning to gather, and now engaged the loner two at a time, then three at a time. Somehow, Thranduil knew who it was before he saw her profile, before the morning light caught the sweat-damp strands of her dark hair.

Perhaps it was normal for Lyra to train with her guard, but he was fairly certain this exhibition of furious pent-up energy wasn't.

As he threw on his boots and moved quickly out the door, he justified his alarm to himself, justified his concern. She was going to injure someone, quite possibly herself, and whatever stood between them, he had no cause to deny her his aid.

He reached the courtyard in half a minute. The guards noticed him and saluted, though none without the faintest sheen of disturbance. They seemed to understand, as he did, that this behavior from their lord wasn't normal, and that firmed the Elvenking's resolve.

"Lady Lyra!" he called, his commanding voice cutting through the noise of clashing weapons and grunts of exertion. "A word, if you don't mind."

She ignored him, disarming her opponent and moving to meet the next. She had to have heard him. No one could be  _ that  _ focused.

"Milady!" This word came even more insistently, and still she didn't acknowledge it. There was terror in the eyes of the young guard she'd elected to attack, little more than a boy and barely holding his own. Thranduil wasn't sure whether or not he'd regret his next action, only that it was necessary.

Snatching a sparring blade from the hand of the nearest guard, he advanced on Lyra swiftly, shoving the boy out of the reach of her sword. Now she had no choice but to notice him, though her eyes were haunted, almost wild. The Elvenking held a defensive stance. If she'd chosen to strike, he felt confident he could have disarmed her in a matter of seconds. It  _ was _ an advantage, elven strength, speed, and the benefit of years.

"Stand down," he said sternly, eyes locked with hers.

Lyra's face was streaked with dust and sweat, her hair in wild disarray, her bosom heaving with exertion. The point of her sword dropped only slightly. "You have no right," she hissed breathlessly. "Get out of my way."

It was strange, how a tone, or a smell, or an expression could transport one so far from the here and now. Thranduil found himself, as he looked into her dark eyes, reliving another moment when he'd only just stopped her throwing away her life on bloody vengeance.

"Put up your sword," he commanded softly, his voice deep and authoritative.

For a moment, the woman resisted, a spark of indignation buried in the set of her jaw. Then, renewing her breathless panting, she let her gaze drop, the sword clattering from nerveless fingers. A wet glint of tears just barely caught the Elvenking's eye as Lyra turned away, lifting a hand to rub the sweat from her face.

"Bring some water," Thranduil ordered softly, and one of the men nodded and ducked into the nearby guardhouse, emerging a moment later with a bucket, ladle, and a small wooden cup.

Thranduil filled the cup quickly and followed the retreating Lyra. She moved to a more secluded area of the courtyard and collapsed onto a stone bench beneath some budding trees. She didn't look up at him. 

"You must drink, Dragonslayer." Thranduil proffered her the cup, wondering if she'd continue to ignore him. "If you refuse, I shall see you committed to a most unpleasant bed rest until you come to your senses." Beneath the almost-threat was a hint of teasing, and Thranduil couldn't quite figure out where it had come from. Certainly wasn't like him to jest under such circumstances.

At last, reluctantly, the woman accepted the cup, and seemed unable to resist quaffing the whole of its contents in one go. She was hot, flushed and spent, but less distant now than she had been before.

"Why did you come?" she asked hoarsely, head bowed, elbows braced on her knees.

This wasn't the time to frustrate her further, but Thranduil wasn't quite ready to be completely forthright. In all truth, he didn't fully understand - now, especially -  _ why _ .

"I do not know." The answer wasn't a lie. Perhaps it was one more honest than he'd yet given. "I came... because I was compelled to. The reasons escape me."

Silence prevailed a good half-minute, and Thranduil seated himself on the bench beside her, leaving a respectable space between them. "You said last night you had hoped for a more 'personal' nature to my visit." His voice had sunk to an undertone. "I've wrestled with that all night. What exactly did you mean?"

"I meant I wanted you to think I was  _ worth _ something." The woman shook her head. "Valar knows I shouldn't care. It's confusing, and you're not helping."

Lyra took a deep breath and pushed a hand through her damp hair. The motion left a streak of pale dust in her hair, and it looked almost as though she'd suddenly aged herself another decade.

"And where," Thranduil shook his head, mildly annoyed, "would you get the idea I didn't think you were worth anything? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're made of stronger stuff than that. I know it. I've seen it."

These were harsh words, but he felt, somehow, she needed them. If she'd been anyone else, he mightn't have bothered at all. He sighed, shifting uncomfortably. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Lyra, I do care for you. Being spurned did not change that, however much I've tried to drown myself in drink since you left the Woodland Realm. But to doubt your value in my eyes... I begin to think you hardly know me."

"I don't! I don't know you at all!" Lyra's voice issued, hoarse and harsh, as if from the pit of her stomach. She lifted her head and gave him a fierce look. "One minute you're as cold as ice, and the next you're all tender concern. You sound like you might be asking my hand in marriage, and then you refuse to speak with me for months. I don't know how to make heads or tails of you, Elvenking. At least the dragon made  _ sense _ ." She stood, began to pace, striding with long, shaky steps from one side of the little arbor to the other. Thranduil watched her, feeling another surge of strong, conflicting emotions.

All at once, the woman stopped, quivering. It might have been exhaustion, or tension, or a combination of both. Her expression was hard to read.

"I'm a fool, Thranduil. I'm a stubborn, angry fool. I've been fighting for so long, I don't know how to do anything else." Her voice became thick, and she stopped, trying to wet her lips with a dry tongue.

"I think you're capable of learning." Thranduil's tone softened only slightly. "Let go of your anger. It's destroying you."

This was becoming terrifyingly clear. Rage and confusion were almost literally tearing her apart at the seams.

He stood finally, trying to catch her gaze. "I know we don't fully understand one another - maybe we never will - but I'm willing to try. Will you let me?"

Her eyes tracked up along his robe to his face, and she swayed a little, as though it were a very great height. And no wonder, when the top of her head couldn't quite reach his shoulder. Thranduil braced her with gentle hands and was perhaps a little more surprised than he ought to have been when she nodded, wordless and tired.

"Milady, you need rest. Allow me to escort you back inside." Further discussion would have to wait until she was in a stable frame of mind. Right now, she was again Lyra after the Battle, and he was the king who would see her well again. She said nothing in reply, but gave no resistance as he supported her back through the courtyard, past the stunned eyes of her guard.

When she was safely nestled into bed and he'd succeeded in getting her to drink half a cup of tea (made of such herbs that would speed her journey to deep sleep), he felt confident she would be alright. She just needed rest, and peace from the anger that so tormented her. Seating himself on a chair near the wall, he shooed Lyra's maidservant out with a promise to keep vigil. He'd be here when she woke.

A servant came with a light breakfast for him, which he accepted - not because he was hungry, but because he knew better than to trust his appetite at the moment. Some time later, the servant returned and quietly took the tray away again.

He watched Lyra sleep, and contemplated all that had passed. What it would mean, if she kept to her decision. How it might work. Where all this monumental anger was coming from. She seemed younger in sleep, and at some point, she shifted, and then began to snore. Thranduil smiled. He had never heard an elf snore - wasn't even sure if they  _ could _ \- but it wasn't repulsive. In fact, the sound was almost endearing.

It was after the servant returned with the noon meal that the Dragonslayer woke, seemingly startled into consciousness by the click of the latch. She looked about, apparently baffled, but relaxed when she spotted Thranduil.

This both comforted and surprised the Elvenking, though he knew he should explain himself. "I hope you don't mind. I felt it best someone stayed with you until you woke."

When she continued to stare at him wordlessly, he went on. "If you wish me to leave, I will. But not before you've had something to eat and drink." He got up, retrieving his own cup of tea, fresh and piping hot.

Lyra nodded slowly and accepted the the cup from him. "I suppose... it was only fair. You've been here the whole time?" Wrapping her hands around the mug, she sighed and gave him a very faint smile. The Dragonslayer seemed much more in possession of her wits than she had been before.

Thranduil nodded, feeling an answering smile creep into his expression against his will. "I thought it best."

Lyra closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet steam rising from her mug before taking a slow drink. The heat didn't seem to bother her. When at last she lowered the cup, it was with a sigh.

"So... what will you do next?" The dragonslayer's dark eyes were clear as they settled on his face. Whatever madness of rage and grief had gripped her was gone again. That it would resurface, Thranduil now had no doubt.

"That depends." He glanced away from her, suddenly uneasy. "I would stay no longer than you wish me to, but I've no desire to leave immediately. I understand," he met her gaze again, "you wish for reconciliation of some form. I have made... erroneous assumptions in the past. I would not make them again."

Remembering there was a sliced apple she'd probably find refreshing with her tea, he retrieved both the lunch tray and his chair, seating himself within reach of the bed. He set the tray on her bedside table and nudged the apple plate toward her.

"I  _ would _ like to know one thing." He paused, leaning forward slightly. His expression was earnest, slightly troubled. "I would know the meaning of the note you sent me some weeks ago, enclosed within your adviser's letter. Your intent. Please be forthright with me. I must know."

Lyra took one of the apple slices, her gaze fixed unerringly on Thranduil's face. He could see his own earnest reflection in her dark eyes, and tried to discern her thoughts, but could read nothing beyond a vague sadness. After a long minute, she sighed and released him from her gaze - a truly curious and novel sensation for the Elvenking.

"I meant only that I am sorry I expected you to prove yourself to me as I did my husband. I was... frightened. I didn't know what your intent was, or your motive. I still don't." The tone of that last statement took a brief dip into irritation, but she moved on quickly. "In all, I ought to have trusted you. I apologize."

"I accept your apology." Thranduil's voice was soft, understanding. "It has taken me some time to... admit the effect you've had on me, Dragonslayer. We Elves are thralls to pride at times." His candor surprised even him. "I... allowed my anger to overrule me."

Lyra relaxed a little and nodded. For now, this seemed to be enough. With a smile, she started to eat her apple and drink her tea, settling into her cushions.

"I don't assume to know what will happen next. I trust you to do what you think is best, and you're welcome to stay as long as you like." She chuckled faintly. "I guess I'm just too oblivious for the elven way. Good thing I wasn't born an elf." 

Her dry tone was laced with humor. Clearly, she felt more comfortable with Thranduil now that things were less unstable between them. That was encouraging, even if he didn't agree with her last statement.

"It might have made things easier." He restored the chair to its place against the wall. "Though," he graced her with a smile, "I've never been one to take the less arduous path."

The Elvenking moved to the door. "Rest, milady. We shall speak again soon."

If he knew her as well as he thought he was beginning to, she would need some time to process. This was all very new, and rushing was not the best way to proceed. All he knew was that he would stay as long as was necessary, and give her as much time as she needed.


	9. Secrets and Interludes

Thranduil had ordered her to rest, but Lyra the Dragonslayer had never been very good at that particular activity. After only an hour, she was up and about again, though it was noted by her chambermaid that the Lord of Dale slept exceptionally well that night.

The house (as she insisted on calling it, though it was in reality a manor, and closer in proportions to a castle) ran smoothly the following day, and the day after, leaving Lyra with more free time than usual to spend entertaining her guests. It was late in the afternoon when she was approached by Thranduil, who had come to her all unannounced, in the garden, where she was overseeing (and assisting with) some of the paltry early harvest.

Lyra straightened as a shadow fell over her, and turned to see the Elvenking watching her with raised eyebrows. Suddenly embarrassed at being caught with hands full of tomatoes, she passed them off to one of the servants and tried to rub the dirt from her palms.

"Ah, Thranduil. I... wasn't expecting you." Her eyes threw silent and unconvincing accusations at him ( _ How could you?! So embarrassing! _ ) but she stood with shoulders squared and chin uplifted, ready to take on the world if need be.

"I'm afraid unannounced appearances are becoming something of a bad habit for me." Thranduil evidently didn't pick up on her tacit accusations, or ignored them altogether. There was, however, the faintest gleam of satisfaction in his face. He was dressed in a shorter robe, dark, muted silver, and his hair was tied back for the first time she'd seen it so. In addition to his unbearable perfection, he now looked... more masculine? What was he up to?

"I thought, milady, you might join me on a ride." The offer was presented softly, so all but the closest servants surely missed it. "The sun sets particularly vibrantly this time of year, and the hills nearby command an impeccable view." He gestured back toward the garden gate through which he'd entered, now open to reveal her horse saddled and bridled, standing next to his. (No saddle or bridle for Thranduil's steed, she noted a bit enviously.)

"Well, doesn't look like I have much of a choice, do I?" She tried to inject a peevish note into her voice, but she suspected that she'd failed quite soundly, all things considered. A ride sounded perfect, and even if she'd seem an ungainly fledgling next to him, she appreciated the effort he was putting in. After all, what could he gain from a ride with her other than a ride with her?

Lyra looked down at herself, and remembered again that she was in her work clothes. "Not really suitable for company," the woman muttered reluctantly.

"Nonsense." Thranduil's voice held more of a smile than did his expression, and he proffered a hand to lead her to her steed. "Besides, if you take the time to change, we'll miss the sunset."

At this, Lyra couldn't help but chuckle appreciatively. She hated needing to change her clothes a half dozen times a day, because this or that wasn't acceptable for this or that sort of company. It was ridiculous. She accepted his outstretched hand, and when they approached the horses, she was grateful that he allowed her to mount by herself. No doubt he was strong enough to lift her into the saddle, but such motions made her feel like a child, incapable and weak.

The Elvenking sprang lightly to the back of his own steed, his movements as fluid and graceful as ever, and, taking a handful of the horse's silky mane in hand, urged the animal into motion.

The pace Thranduil set was, thankfully, gentle. Having had little cause to ride before the destruction of Laketown, it wasn't yet as natural to her as Lyra wished it to be. Certainly not when compared to Thranduil's horsemanship, this strange ability to seem almost one with the beast, able to direct without the use of speech or reins.

They rode a good ten minutes, climbing ever upward over the rocky terrain, the orangey-pink glow of the setting sun partially obscured by the steeply rising hill above them.

"I do believe we've arrived just in time." The illusion of spontaneity was somewhat undercut by a faint hint of satisfaction in the elf's voice. Lyra had no doubt he'd planned this excursion out to the very second, but she tried not to be too critical of his methods.

She didn't have long to think on it, though. A moment later, Thranduil's steed achieved the top of the rise, his silvery-white hide bathed in brilliant red-gold light. Lyra's horse followed the elven steed's sedate lead, and below them, the city and the valley and the heath beyond spread like a fantastic painting.

Each dell and bush was thrown into deep relief, and the far horizon was afire with gold and red and pale pink. Striated clouds looked as though they'd been dipped in indigo, dripping deep color to the land far below. Lyra's eyes were dazzled, but as she watched, the colors darkened to burgundy and orange and deepest purple.

She shook her head slightly. "Not sure how I managed to miss this."

"It is very easy to miss things when one is not looking for them." Thranduil's words drew her gaze back to him. He looked so... ethereal in the ruddy glow, his eyes fire-bright, his hair like spun gold. She tried not to stare. Elves truly were mysterious beings; too beautiful, too perfect to belong in a world so dark and broken. It made her conscious once again of the gulf that separated their two races - not an easy thing to dismiss.

"I suppose I've been... distracted." Lyra's answer came after a significant delay. 

Thranduil noticed. "Is something bothering you, milady?" As he spoke one of his eyebrows twitched fractionally upward, as though he were stopping it, consciously trying not to give the impression of condescension. With difficulty, Lyra tore her eyes away, and nearly blinded herself by looking directly at the setting sun.

"Nothing that hasn't bothered me before," she admitted, eyes watering. She lifted a hand to brush away the wetness, but felt something brush against her leg. A moment later, Thranduil's hand (because who else's could it possibly be?) closed gently around her wrist.

To her surprise, he didn't speak. Didn't pry, didn't offer reassurance or platitudes. Just held her, gently, and looked at her. Not with judgement or curiosity or purpose or whatever else he might have. She felt like he was seeing her as she was, and accepting what he found there without reservation. It was a very strange, a very _ comforting _ feeling, one she hadn't experienced quite so strongly in his presence before. Safety, maybe. He felt safe.

The light faded gradually, turning hues of deep purple and blue before finally vanishing altogether into blackness and glinting pinpoints of white. Moonlight bathed the land in its pale glow and shimmered on the lake, punctuated by the concentrated yellow of the smaller rebuilt town just offshore. It began to grow a bit chilly, and Lyra suddenly wished she'd brought her coat. The thought had scarcely registered before she felt a heavy layer of fabric placed gently across her shoulders. Thranduil's cloak, velvet and silk, smelling impossibly fresh and airy.

She glanced at him questioningly, even as she tugged the edges of the cloak around her chest. "You... don't need it?" Silly question. Why had she even asked?

Thranduil shrugged. "You looked colder."

Colder. That meant he was cold, too. In a way, it was comforting to know that he was at least somewhat susceptible to mortal weaknesses like cold.

"When you start getting cold, let me know, and I'll give it back." Lyra had a sneaking suspicion that Thranduil wouldn't, but it made her feel better to say it.

"I suppose we ought to head back," she offered, after a lengthy pause. They'd accomplished what they came here to do, after all, and neither seemed particularly intent on speaking. Not that that was a  _ bad _ thing, but Lyra was used to being productive. Goal-oriented. Leisure activities (even if they might possibly be categorized as diplomacy-building) were not wholly indulged in without some sense of guilt.

Thranduil nodded wordlessly, turning his horse about. The beast had stood, mostly at attention, the entire time. Calm and patient. Well-trained. Lyra's had stamped after a while and tried to get at a patch of grass near the edge of the hill.

They rode for some time, though Lyra noted, at a much slower pace than the one to see the sunset. The elvenking looked pensive, she decided, though he'd never been particularly easy to read.

Finally, he spoke up. His voice was steady, his words well-considered.

"You asked me once of the elven way of courting. Of love." He kept his gaze straight ahead. "Perhaps you've wondered why I gave you no direct reply."

A moment of silence passed, tense now, and Lyra realized a bit too late that she'd been staring. Thranduil had returned her gaze calmly, waiting for her to speak.

"Well, yes, I had wondered, but I assumed you had a good reason for not telling me." Another pause. "I trust you to tell me what I need to know."

"Well then, milady, I shall try not to misuse that trust." Thranduil smiled winsomely. "Elven ways are, shall we say, a bit informal for your taste. I suppose we communicate in a more... understated fashion."

Lyra wasn't precisely sure what he was implying, but nodded anyway. Thranduil  _ did _ seem to have a talent for incisiveness. If all elves shared that, she supposed there would be fewer misunderstandings among their kind.

"And how is courting arranged, then? Not by the parents, I would imagine." With lifespans as long as they possessed, she imagined Elves were more than qualified to choose their own mates when it came time for them to marry.

The elvenking shook his head. "Not usually, no. Most elven families trust their children to know what is best for them when the time comes. Some of my forebearers, however, would have argued against such faith. But that was strictly amongst nobility, and in... special circumstances." There was a certain distance to his expression now that Lyra suspected hid some memory, some specific instance in the past he was recalling.

Lyra felt just bold enough to ask the very question that wrestled with her tongue.

"And... were you and your wife in a special circumstance?" She felt, somehow, that he was so much older than anything she'd ever known - she couldn't imagine what sort of world he'd been born into. What kind of world had he grown up in? Had there been a Dale, or a Gondor, or a Mirkwood, when Thranduil was a young elf? She couldn't imagine him being young.

A funny thought, really, since nary a wrinkle marred his pale, flawless face. He'd been frozen in the fullness of youth, the only thing to betray his true age the deep wells of years that were his bright eyes, the knowledge and confidence behind his words, his every gesture.

"My wife... was not my choice, no." Thranduil's voice had sunk lower, and his hands, which had before merely rested amongst the horse's mane, now fisted into it. "I loved another. A commoner. A captain's daughter, and a fierce fighter in her own right. I was headstrong even as a youngling, and no words of my father could dissuade me."

He sighed, dropping his gaze to the neck of the horse, as though struck by deep shame. "He tried to separate us, and sent my elleth's company into battle ahead of the others. I received word, tried to save her, but... all too late." Thranduil was silent a long moment, and it was heavy as lead. "The battle claimed many lives, as well as the king's. But hers... hers was my doing, and mine alone."

Lyra didn't know what to say. The grief in his face was so raw, so fresh, it was just as though the woman had died yesterday, and not centuries ago. Her own wounds seemed to echo his pain, and she looked away for a moment, unable to stand the hurt. Their legs bumped gently together.

"I suppose... she'd tell you the same thing you told me," she murmured, and it was as though someone else were speaking. The words felt strange in her mouth. "You can claim responsibility, but you can't claim fault." The muffled thud of horses' hooves against the damp grass filled the silence between them before she continued, quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to carry that with you."

With a heavy sigh, she glanced at him, her vision ringed with unshed tears, and she could see him looking at her. It was a piercing look. Penetrating. As though he were seeing something so far beyond her body she couldn't hope to imagine it.

"I wish you didn't have to carry it alone, Thranduil. No one deserves a burden like that."

"I deserve every ounce of it." The elvenking's voice was full of conviction, and perhaps the faintest waver of grief. "It is mine to bear, and bear it I shall, to the end of my days."

Just as Lyra began to wonder if she'd gone too far, Thranduil seemed to recover, his ease returning, his eyes no longer seeing faces from ages past, faces long dead. "I would sooner we did not speak of such things, milady. It changes nothing."

Inexplicably, for he'd given no command, his steed picked up the pace, such that further talk was inhibited by cold, rushing wind.

Lyra felt a surge of irritation, but nudged her steed into a trot to follow the ghostlike form of the elf ahead of her. He was terrible at this, she reflected, but he was trying, and she knew it had to have cost him dearly to share what she was sure few had heard in his long life.

The cold air slapped at her face, and the night seemed less safe without a warm hand on her arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not the only one that's deeply tempted to write out Thranduil's tragic love life. The captain's daughter - oh, the scandal! :D


	10. A Promise and a Gift

Lyra closed her eyes, steadying herself. The last time this had been on her mind, she had been the object of the pursuit, not the pursuer. But that was only fair. Thranduil had done his best when she was in his home. Now he was in her home and it was her turn. 

She just wished she knew a little more about what she was doing. 

Gripping the little wooden box in one hand, she knocked firmly on the Elvenking's door, predicting he would be out on the balcony and looking down at the rest of the town. 

A moment passed. Then the door opened. It was one of Thranduil's entourage, an elf with light brown hair and a face that might as well have been carved from stone for all it revealed.

"Lady Lyra," he said, tone flat. "My king is... indisposed."

"Who is it?" the imperious voice of the Elvenking called from within, some distance away, perhaps toward the back of the room. There was a large splash from roughly the same location, followed by an inconvenienced growl. 

"Uh, I can come back later, if it's inconvenient." Lyra raised her voice just enough that she was sure Thranduil would hear her with his sharp elven ears. It sounded like he was in the bath, which was thoroughly embarrassing. She hadn't expected to interrupt something so... personal. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when the Elvenking himself peered around the doorway. As much of him as could be seen was bare - she dearly hoped he was wrapped in a towel - his hair damp and dripping, and by the way his face twitched suddenly from irritation to shock, she figured he had taken the knock at the door for a pesky servant, and not the Lord of Dale. The expression lasted only a split second before it was schooled into submission.

"My lady," he said, with remarkable decorum considering the circumstances. "I... was not expecting you." He glanced down at himself. "Clearly. If you give me a moment to dress, I will be at your disposal." 

As he whisked out of sight, Lyra stared at the ceiling, doing her very best not to think much about how much bare skin she'd seen. She was failing pretty miserably at that, even as he returned, fully dressed. His hair was still wet, but somehow he managed to make wet hair look extremely fashionable. The part of her that was mother to her two girls wanted very much to braid it for him, theorizing that his hair felt exactly as silky as it looked.

That, however, would be rather bolder than she was willing to risk, on a number of levels.

"I'm sorry about the interruption. I didn't realize you would be... occupied."

Thranduil chuckled, privately amused. The flush of her cheeks was very telling. "Come. We'll sit on the terrace." It overlooked the courtyard, which was empty and quiet, save for the birds. 

An assortment of wooden furniture had been brought up for the Elvenking's use, including a number of fine benches and chairs. Thranduil indicated she should have her choice of seats, then claimed one across from her, sinking into it with a small sigh. The breeze ruffled his damp tresses, bringing with it the promise of rain. 

"It's not often a lord of Men interrupts my bath," the elf said, smiling in a way that was almost... impish. Maybe that was imagined. 

Lyra shifted in her seat, trying to make herself relax. It had been a very long time since she was teased like this, and she honestly didn't know how to handle it. Not well, in any case. Rubbing her own scarred forearm and gripping the wooden box, she made herself smile.

"Yes, well... most lords of Men, I think, would have just waited. It's polite, and all." Then, breathing deep, she offered him the box, without actually looking at him. "I made these for you. As a... token, I guess."

Stars above, had it been this hard for Hal, or was she just inept? Lyra thought she would melt on the spot in the furnace of her own embarrassment.

In the box were two finely carved wooden bracelets. One was a thin bangle that looked like a series leaping fish. The other was a sturdy, hinged cuff carved with imaginative forest plants and the shy, horned head of an elk.

Thranduil gazed at the adornments a long while, admiring the expressiveness of the detail work. They were a token of that which he had long desired, more precious to him than any of the silver and gold among his treasures. 

He brushed his fingers over the carving of the elk. It was silky smooth, polished with linseed oil. He looked up to meet her gaze once more. "I had no idea you had such skill. There are few among my own people who can coax such life from wood." 

He closed the box gently, setting it on a low table beside him. "If... I may be so bold." There was the faintest hint of nerves in his voice, despite his efforts to master it. Smiling, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. 

Lyra was rather pink in the cheeks, and gripped his hand firmly, even as his warm lips touched her skin. "It's... something I learned from my father," she admitted, and smiled hesitantly. "He used to make things for my mother when I was little." Her gaze flicked away again, as though searching for words in the empty courtyard below. 

"I have... I owe you a great deal. And I don't know how to... I mean, this is all very..." She trailed off, glancing at him again with an anxious furrow between her dark brows. "I'm not very good at this." 

Thranduil studied her, tracking the shift as though it were the melting of ice in the spring thaw. There was a side to her she was gradually allowing him to see, a vulnerability she seldom showed. 

He still held her hand, savoring the connection he had long craved. "Speak on," he bid her softly, his voice slipping into its lower register. It was best, he thought, to let her reveal what she would while she was of a mind to do so. 

Her hands were calloused, warm, and nearly as large as his, though his fingers were longer. Lyra turned his hand over between her own and began to knead his palm with her thumbs, as though making him relax, though he didn't need it. Her eyes were on his hand as she spoke in slow, halting fragments. 

"All my life... I've either been pursued or not worth pursuing. Being on this side of it... being on the pursuing side is new. I'm not good at it." She paused, the silence drifting between them like a barge on her beloved lake. "When you... approached me. In the wood. I was... frightened. I was afraid. I'm no noble. No royal. I'm not even the Master of the Lake, not really. And I don't want to be. I didn't want to slay the dragon. I just want... I want..." The woman trailed off, her thumbs going still. Confusion on her face, she looked up until dark brown eyes met piercing blue ones. "I don't even know what I want."

Thranduil noticed flecks that were almost gold in her eyes, drawn out by the warm sun. He had seen many more fair than Lyra in his time, but something about her stirred him differently than the perfection he was used to. In her face was strength, courage, honor. Hardship, too, and grief. 

Importantly, she had her own mind, and would not bow before his will simply because of his status. He admired that. 

"Perhaps it is not so easy to define. You once said what you wanted was freedom. But much has changed since then." A dull ache spread within him as he watched the gentle motions of her hands. A longing, maybe, to understand better. "I cannot know the desires of your heart, my lady. I know only... the desire of mine." His gaze lit upon hers again, hoping to find there what he sought. 

She held the look, searching now. Seeking answers, much as he was. The woman had the tanned look of a common laborer, but for a smattering of tiny white scars on her cheeks. Perhaps a childhood illness had left them on her, like pale freckles.

"What does your heart desire?" Lyra's voice steadied, dropping cautiously as she regarded him. There was a shadow of wariness in her yet, some of that fear lingering under the trust she'd chosen to give him.

The Elvenking leaned forward in his seat a little, stilling her hands. Anxiety thrilled within him, setting his heart racing. He found it surprising - all he had faced in his time, and it was here in this moment he felt fear. 

A dozen replies flitted through his mind, all insufficient. What to say in such a moment? To speak, or simply to trust?

Slowly, one of his hands moved to frame her face. Then he leaned in and kissed her. 

For a heartbeat, maybe less, she didn't know what to do. How many years without her husband now... five? At least that. Little Tilda had still been a baby. But some things her body simply didn't forget.

Perhaps it was true desire. Maybe it was a memory of how she ought to respond. She opened to him, returning his kiss, rough chapped lips moving against his soft ones as her fingers tightened around his hand. But in a moment it had passed. Lyra pulled back, stunned, flushed, breathless. She stared into his face for a second, brown eyes wide, then she shoved him hard in the chest. She was strong for a human, and out-weighed him, giving her just enough leverage to knock him clean off the bench.

"What was that?!" Her voice had leapt up an octave in her surprise, anger blazing in her face. "If you want attention like that you had better be willing to marry me or Valar help you I'll tie you to that stupid elk and send you into the Lake with it!"

Thranduil could thank his catlike reflexes for the fact that he'd landed in an elegant crouch behind the bench. How he had managed it, even in his long robes, was anyone's guess, though Lyra figured by the distinctive ripping sound during the event that one or more of the seams were casualties of the tumble. 

To his own surprise, the Elvenking grinned. She was a rather good kisser, and the memory of it was still tingling within him. He could scarcely fault her for such a reaction, and anyway, the fire he'd ignited in her face was as alluring to him as any of her other moods. With elegant movements, he stood, straightened his robes, and swung back into his seat. 

"I suppose it's fortunate, then, that I am well and truly prepared to marry you." 

At this, words utterly failed her. Lyra sputtered, scattered ascending tones implying a question that couldn't quite find words to express itself. After a second or two of this, she launched herself to her feet, pointing at him as though this would help her speak.

It didn't.

Running both hands over her face and into her hair, the woman forced herself to breathe for a count of 7, then looked at him again, slowly lowering her hands.

"I'm not announcing that," she said flatly. "And you can tell my daughters. My first wedding was trouble enough, and I can only thank the stars above my mother isn't around for this one."

"I think you will find elven weddings are less of a bother than those among your own people." Thranduil stood, taking both her hands bracingly. It was understandable, this reaction. All of it was. He knew it would be a struggle, getting her through the next few days, but it would be worth it.

"I will spare you from as much as I can, meleth nin." He stroked her cheek, his voice once more low and steady. "I promise." He was tempted to kiss her again, but resisted. That wasn't what she needed right now. She needed to know he was there, that he would  _ always _ be there. He loosed her hands, pulling her gently but firmly into his arms. 

Her arms were stiff as she returned his embrace, but it was heartfelt. Lyra closed her eyes, turned her face into his shoulder, and worked hard not to give way to the tears gathering in her throat and eyes. No. She was done with weakness. The woman inhaled his clean scent and used it to anchor herself, refusing to think about how she'd done this same thing with the smoky, fishy smell of her husband's coat. Her... first husband.

"I meant it. You can tell the girls. But I suppose I should probably speak with the council." That was an exhausting thought. Their 'Dragonslayer Queen' she might be, but the way she'd set it up, she was really meant to be more a keystone than a capstone. She wasn't the head above all the heads, she was just the voice of reason when they couldn't agree. And she had a feeling they wouldn't agree about this.

Lyra breathed deeply, feeling herself shudder a little, and pulled back to rub her face. Enough of this. She was Lyra Bowman. She could handle whatever she needed to. When the woman lowered her hands, her face wore that grim, determined look again, but her eyes softened a little as she looked at him.

"You followed me into battle. It took me long enough to discover I'd do the same for you. I'm sorry I was too scared to try."

Thranduil nodded. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Look not to the past, but to what awaits us in days to come." He smiled, the breeze ruffling his hair. It had mostly dried now, leaving it unfairly straight and feather-soft. "Now, if you can bear to do it, I suggest you inform your council at once."  _ Before your resolve fails _ , was the unspoken implication. "I shall go to your daughters, unless you think there is cause for me to wait." 

There was no denying he was eager, but he'd waited long enough for this. They both had. 

Lyra sighed, straightened her old, battered coat, and tried to smooth back her dark hair, without much success. "I see no reason to put it off. I think the girls are down in the kitchen, learning how to bake bread." She hesitated a moment, then pulled him closer for another, briefer hug. "Come find me once they've calmed down. I may need your help with the council."

Releasing him with a tense smile, she turned to go, striding purposefully inside and to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this may have been my favorite chapter to write. I loved Lyra's reactions and Thranduil's cultured uncertainty. It was all very fun. :) 
> 
> By the way, we're getting toward the end now, and should start thinking about what you'd like to see next! Leave suggestions in the comments below, and I'll see what I can do.


	11. No Guesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which an Elvenking is Insulted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter, but I skipped last week due to some schedule mess that I couldn't sort out in time, so expect another chapter shortly.

The girls were indeed in the kitchen. The older, Sigrid, noticed him first, and poked the cook with her elbow as she stared at him. The cook was an older gentleman with the look of the fisherfolk of Long Lake. Seeming embarrassed, he hastily cleaned his hands on his apron and stepped away from the girls and their project, approaching the Elvenking with short, bobbing motions of his head. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, milord?" he asked, seeming nervous about speaking to so great a person. 

"Leave me a moment with them." Thranduil indicated the two sisters, and the cook bowed, tugging at his apron nervously.

"Of course, milord." He veered away, discombobulated as a landed fish. It was more than likely he'd never had anyone like the Elvenking visit his kitchen before, and didn't know how to act. 

"You want to talk to  _ us _ ?" Sigrid asked, surprised. Tilda, hands covered in soapsuds, glanced from her sister to the Elvenking, clearly even more confused.

Thranduil gestured for them to come to him. He had very little idea what form this conversation would take. But it was necessary, and better now than later. He smiled at them.

"Perhaps you might have a guess as to why I'm here?" he said, focusing on Sigrid. Surely the dynamic between their mother and Thranduil could not have entirely escaped their notice.

Sigrid's eyes narrowed slightly and she folded her arms. "No," she said, the lie bold as brass on her tongue. "I don't have any guesses. Why are you here, Your Highness?"

She was her mother's daughter, to be sure, staring him down like he was a common soldier come begging for a meal and a pallet for the night. Tilda, thinking this was a grand game, copied her sister. The little girl crossed her arms and scowled, obviously enjoying herself. Children making things difficult for the adults in their lives was predictable enough, but Thranduil still wished he had some dorwinion on hand. Tragically, he would have to do without. 

"Things are... about to change," he said finally, and it came out more ominously than he'd intended, going by their expressions. "Your mother and I..." He cast about a moment for how to put it, then sighed. "Have you truly not guessed?" 

Sigrid smirked. "No. I really haven't. Because there's no way Mum would agree to anything official with a man that can't even explain himself to a couple little girls."

Thranduil was ill used to being openly insulted, but he checked his impulse toward anger. These were children, after all, and didn’t deserve his wrath.

“It seems you have taken after your mother in more than just your looks.” With effort, he softened his expression. “Very well. I’ve come to tell you - on her orders, to be clear... that your mother and I are to marry.”

"Marry?" asked Tilda incredulously. Sigrid grinned down at her sister.

"He's gonna try to be our new papa," she provided, seeming inordinately pleased with herself.

Then, without very much warning at all, the two girls threw themselves at Thranduil, wrapping their arms around his middle ecstatically. It was of course Sigrid that leaned back first, looking up at him seriously. "If you hurt our mum, I won't ever forgive you."

"I would not forgive myself either," the Elvenking agreed, returning their embrace. It was certainly not the reaction he had anticipated, but for once he was pleased to be wrong. He looked into their two faces, Tilda's open and excited, Sigrid's guarded, but eyes bright and expectant. He had known little of them before, and yet something worked within him even now, blooming in his chest like orchids in early summer. "I will work tirelessly to be the husband she deserves," he smiled, "and a good father to you, if you will have me." 

He had not completely articulated this intention to Lyra yet - claiming her daughters as his own - but he knew this was what he wanted. His family had been shattered by the loss of the queen those many years ago, and in his grief, the Elvenking had withdrawn from the world, become angry and distant. His failures had deeply affected his own son, who he had only lately reconciled with.

Now he was to have another chance to do things right. He would look after Lyra, and her children, and their children and grandchildren, until at last time came for him to depart the circles of the world. The Dragonslayer's family would be  _ his _ family.

"If you make Mum happy, that's all I'd want." Sigrid still had that guarded look, but it was clear enough she approved. Tilda, smaller and easier to please, clung to him tightly. 

"I always wanted a papa!" Her voice was muffled in his robes, which seemed to entertain her. She giggled, hiding amid the folds and whispering "peek-a-boo" when looking out at her sister. 

Sigrid stooped and swept her up, grinning as her sister shrieked in delight. “We were going to make bread once the kitchen was clean. Are you going to stay and help us, or go find Mum?” 

Someday, he reflected, this girl would make a very keen politician. He could only hope he would be able to help her in all the ways a father should. Bread, though… that was tempting. He glanced toward the window, calculated how long it would take for Lyra to gather the Council, and felt both a scoundrel and the sort of father he had always hoped to be. 

“I think I have time to help you make some bread. It’s been a very long time since I did it, though.” He smiled down at Tilda. “You might have to show me how.” 


	12. Conflicting Interests

The council took their sweet time about gathering, then about getting quiet. None of them were happy about being summoned so early in the day. When they were (finally) quiet and focused on her, Lyra stood.

"I've called you here for an important announcement, which I hope"  _ but seriously doubt, _ "will be well-received. The Elvenking of Mirkwood, Thranduil of the Horned Crown, has asked for my hand in marriage, and I have agreed."

There was a beat of stunned silence. It lasted maybe a second before the tension in the air snapped like frayed leather, and everyone started talking at once.

"Are you mad?"

"It's about time-"

"He's an elf!"

"He's a  _ king _ ."

"Our Dragonslayer needs a strong partner."

"The elves will take over!"

A few more grumbled and groused about the suddenness of it all. Why hadn’t she bothered to tell them sooner? Most reacted from sheer surprise, concerned about what changes this development might bring. Eventually the shocked exclamations and cacophony of opinions settled into more civil speech.

“Lady Lyra,” said one man, a defense advisor, “you have led us well. You have earned our respect and our trust. But might your intended husband cause,” he paused a moment, perhaps trying to put his point delicately, “a conflict of interest?”

"And what points of interest," asked Lyra calmly, "would my future husband and I conflict on? The elves have been nothing if not helpful to us."

“I doubt the Elves’ aid was purely charitable,” a trade adviser chimed in. “There was something to be gained by placing us in their debt.”

“And what power,” said one of the overseers for the rebuilding of the city, “has ever offered their assistance when there is nothing to be gained? Would  _ we _ ?”

Most murmured “no.” Still, none could recall anything being demanded in exchange for what Thranduil’s folk had done. The people of Dale had little enough of value, the potential for future trade agreements notwithstanding.

The overseer for building repairs met Lyra’s gaze. “All I know, milady, is that without their help, hundreds would have starved, and many more died of exposure. If there was aught to be gained, they might have chosen more worthy folk to be indebted to them. For my part, I trust the Elves. And their king.”

Lyra nodded to her overseer, then looked at the others. "The elves of Mirkwood may have desired trade with us, or superiority over the dwarves. I don't know. What I do know is they helped us when we had nothing to offer in return, and they have not pressed that debt on us. I know that the Elvenking has asked nothing of me but my hand, and I'm inclined to grant him that for my own reasons. I have an heir, as does he. This need not interrupt the line of succession, should you desire my title to pass to my children. But I've never asked for this power, and should you think it needful, I'll surrender the title of Lord of Dale so the council may choose a new leader. I chose this council so it might stand as a reminder to me of the people I fought for, and so you might serve the folk of Dale and Laketown when they need you. Make your decisions wisely."

Silence lasted a fair while before finally being broken by scattered murmuring. A few of the men weren’t entirely convinced, but none seemed of a mind to voice strong opposition.

The chatter died away again when the door squeaked open, all attention shifting. Thranduil.

“I mean no intrusion,” he offered, his robes sweeping the floorboards behind him as he approached the table. A faint smell of flour followed him, his sleeves still lightly dusted with the substance. One of the men tried to offer him a seat, but the Elvenking declined, pacing to stand near Lyra.

“I sense this meeting has already decided what it must. Nonetheless, I would bring further clarity to my intentions, as they are doubtless a matter of debate among you. I can only offer that,” he turned, catching Lyra’s gaze, “I love her. More than anything else in this life. I seek no advantage through this arrangement, other than to have her by my side, as long as she wills. You have my word and oath, if have them you must.”

Lyra felt like she was suffocating in the blue of his eyes. She stared at him, unable to process what he had just said. "Love?" she breathed, unsure how to feel about that. She had known, on some level. She'd have been a fool not to. But hearing him say it out loud was something entirely different.

The decorum in Thranduil’s face warmed a little, his lips hinting at a smile. He nodded. It was true, and he no longer cared who knew. Not her, not her children, not even his own son, when the time came for that conversation to happen. It was very freeing.

“Since the day we met, Lady Lyra. Though I knew it not at the time.”

The woman might have done something drastic then, but the council speaker cleared his throat to get her attention. "The council will give its consent for this marriage, but we must ensure the line of inheritance is set in stone. The elves have ever been our friends, but we should like our boundaries to be clear."

Lyra sighed and twisted to face the speaker. "Then by all means, let's have the terms drawn up and signed immediately."

With one last lingering look at Lyra, Thranduil thanked the council and politely excused himself. The further business to be done here was not his. Lyra could tell him later what had been decided, as she judged necessary. 

For now, he had a letter to write. He was not on the best terms with Legolas, but his son deserved to know. He returned to his chambers, bid his servant fetch quill and parchment, and had only just finished signing the completed letter when Lyra again knocked at his door. 

He ushered her in, then gave a signal to the servant, who retrieved a flat wooden box from one of the trunks along the far wall.

"Post the letter quickly," Thranduil bid him, taking the box, "and send for food and wine. We will be on the veranda when they bring it up."

The servant bowed and rushed away with the letter.

Thranduil smiled, escorting Lyra out to the balcony before offering her the box. "I regret I did not craft them myself. These have long been precious to me, and... I wish for you to have them now." They were the white gems of Lasgalen, fashioned by the Dwarves of Erebor for the Queen of the Woodland Realm. But she had never seen them. The gems had come into Thranduil's keeping only recently, a gesture of good will from Thorin's folk in the days following the battle.

Lyra stared at the jewels with an open mouth. Though she had handled the gold and gems from the dragon's hoard quite extensively, budgeting and spending the stuff, it had never been hers. This was... a horse of a different color.

The woman covered her face, and at first it looked like she was crying, until she looked at him through her fingers with a breathless laugh. "Can you actually imagine me wearing these? I'm not...." She trailed off, first gesturing helplessly to the box, then plucking pointedly at her coat. It was the same ragged leather thing, its lambswool lining almost rubbed away at the collar and cuffs, holes torn and stitched again and again in the butter-soft hide. Those jewels certainly didn't match any outfit she'd ever worn of her own volition.

Her reaction pleased him, even if he had to agree that the gems were certainly too opulent under any normal circumstances.

“They are what I see within you, my love,” he offered, “for it is your heart that won me and not your attire. You are strong and valiant, hard and true as these gems, and you shine as bright, for you have also honor, wisdom, and compassion.”

Lyra blushed scarlet under his praise and grunted some sort of protest neither of them paid much attention to. She closed the box and set it aside. "If I actually believed that, I wouldn't be the woman you asked to marry. I'm no braver or more important than any of my people. I was just in a position to act when others were frightened. That's all."

Thranduil subsided with a fond look. “As you will.” She would never accept his praises, naturally, but humility was another thing he admired in her.

He extended a hand to caress her face, wishing again for the boldness to kiss her. But it did not come. Perhaps it was best to let her initiate, if such was her desire.

“Now, my love,” he said softly, searching her gaze, “what arrangements have been made with the council?”

Lyra sighed, half-closing her eyes to call up the memory. "I received official confirmation that the monarchy of Dale is to be an elected position. My eldest living child," saying that phrase caused a spasm of pain to cross her face, but she continued after only a moment, "will be my heir by default, but should the people and the council not approve of her when the time comes, they have the right and the means to elect a new king or queen. You are to have no ruling power in Dale or Laketown, and any of your children by me, if named heirs in Mirkwood, cannot also be heirs here. I think that's the simple version."

Thranduil nodded, saddened to see even the momentary pain of bereavement cross her face. They would have some consolation in each other going forward, but nothing would fully ease the pain of those lost untimely.

His hand moved to take hold of hers, grasping it tenderly, admiring its scrapes and calluses for what they were - tales of dedication, of sacrifice, of love. Some were doubtless acquired coaxing lifelike creatures from wood, the elk and fish that adorned her gift to him. "The palace halls are long bereft of the joy of youth," he admitted. Away from the vast, subterranean emptiness of his kingdom, the rushing silence beneath grief and wine, he could see it more clearly for what it was. He had existed long enough in that despair.

The Elvenking caressed the Dragonslayer's hand, eyes lighting on hers again. "I would hear the laughter of children again." 

Lyra felt her face turn hot and looked away again. "I'm not exactly considered young anymore," she muttered, though she couldn't have been more than 35. By elven standards, she was still a child, and would be until the day she expired of old age.

Still... another child. Bain would have been excited, though he would have hidden it. Tilda would be over the moon. Perhaps...

Lyra shook her head. "I'm not ready for that kind of talk yet. It'll happen when it happens."

"You're right," said Thranduil, gauging her response carefully. This was a sensitive subject, and while she had brought it up, he saw now it was too much to address all at once. "The wedding is enough for now. What comes after can wait." 

He would give her as long as she needed. And if the time never came, he would accept that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April Fool's Day! I did serious consider writing a joke chapter for the occasion, but unfortunately there are many other demands on my time at the moment, so I didn't have the free time to make it happen. That said, here's the concept: 
> 
> Lyra announces to the Council that she and Thranduil are going to be married, and one of the Councilors jumps up to shout he OBJECTS and that it's his RIGHT to marry her himself, and if she disagrees, he'll just challenge the elf to a dance-off, on the roof at dawn!
> 
> XD It would have been funny, and I'm sure you would have enjoyed it, but there you have it. We don't always have the time for the fun stuff we plan for. :)


	13. Outburst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for skipping last week - things came up and as usual, I forgot to recycle my unfinished to-dos the following day. XP I'll be posting 2 chapters today to make up for it. 
> 
> A note about the following chapters, though - there was a hiatus of several months between the time Loki and I finished writing the previous chapter and when we started writing this one. I don't recall exactly why we stopped, but it probably had something to do with Loki globetrotting her little heart out while I was working on my website or something. 
> 
> The point is that there's a tone shift in how we were handling this, since we'd come back to it for the sake of a friend of hers that was receiving the story for Christmas, and were trying to wrap it up while still enjoying ourselves. If I come back to it at some point in the future, I will probably try to smooth out this transition, but for now I'm happy with what we have. It was fun to write.

"Why the Woodland Realm?" Lyra's voice was tense. She paced the balcony restlessly, hands clasping and unclasping as she wheeled from one boundary to the next. "I know it's nicer and richer and bigger and prettier and everything, but the Council of Dale is already worried about your influence over me and my future policies. This is going to make them think everything I do is at your whim."

She hadn't actually meant to say any of that aloud. He'd been so happy and in such a hurry... but the Dragonslayer Queen was honestly concerned that her future husband was literally thinking of nothing but his own happiness. The politics of the situation could not be brushed off and ignored until a later date. She had been a queen less than a year and even she knew that!

Thranduil, who had been taking his ease nearby, felt blindsided by the outburst. He sat up in his seat, sending a pointed look at his attendant, who quickly slipped out, closing the door to the balcony behind him. 

"I did not think..." he trailed off, checking his impulse toward vague annoyance. She clearly had good cause, even if this was the first he was hearing of the Council's concerns. "I thought you wouldn't mind," he continued more softly. "After all, my palace is better suited to host a royal wedding. There are only two buildings in Dale large enough to host the many guests who would attend, and they are not far enough along in their repairs. The banquet hall of this place, while of a fair size, could not accommodate both the nobles and dignitaries of Dale and those from the Woodland Realm."

She turned on him, looking as though she were ready to engage him in single combat. But neither of them were armed, and as her gaze met his, the violence of her outburst evaporated. Rubbing her face with both hands, then dragging her fingers through unruly dark hair, Lyra threw herself onto the nearest bench with a groan.

"I don't even know why you want to marry me," she muttered, avoiding his eyes this time by staring fixedly at the flagstones. "I'll be dead of old age before you even settle into a routine." It was bubbling to the surface all at once, and she couldn't seem to hold it in.

Thranduil stood, pacing to her bench and seating himself beside her, arranging robes and thoughts. These were things he had known would come up eventually, and yet he had not prepared for what answer he might give. In any case, he owed her his honesty. 

"Many see length of days as its own end - that which mortals desire, but can never attain. They believe the brevity of their own lives makes them little in the grand scheme of the world, when that is precisely the opposite." He glanced at her. She was still staring at her feet. 

"Why," he went on, "do you imagine I cannot cherish whatever time I am granted with you as much as if we were together through the ages? I do not know how it will be in the days ahead, only that I would spend them by your side. I..." He looked away from her again, his chest tightening with the truth he knew he must speak, no matter how vulnerable it made him feel. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you, my love, though I know the day will come. I already grieve, and yet... I would have it no other way. For I measure years not in quantity, but in meaning. I do not doubt the years I share with you... will be the best I have ever had. Or ever  _ shall  _ have."

Lyra kept her head down. Now that the explosion of emotion had passed, she was calm again. Calm and clear-headed. That was why she was the Dragonslayer. One callused hand reached out and grasped Thranduil's, her skin surprisingly warm to the touch.

"Then why all this? The dressing up and decorations and speeches and feasts. You pretend this is what makes up who you are, but I don't think that's what's inside you any more than it's inside me. I've seen your face when you look at a silent sunrise, or when the rain falls through new leaves, like yesterday afternoon." Lyra looked up and caught his gaze, holding it fiercely. "I'm not doing this for them. I'm doing this for you. Is this what you really want?"

“I want  _ you _ ,” he said, placing his other hand over hers. “That is all I know. The rest... is negotiable.”

The woman's expression was tense. "We don't need big parties and fancy dresses. I'll grab an official and a couple witnesses, we can disappear for a couple hours and it'll be done. Let the nobles and their cronies enjoy the feasts and dancing. All I need is my family. I want you to be part of it."

The suggestion was absurd. Crazy, even. But one look at her face told Thranduil she was serious. Of course she was. He’d never known her to jest.

“And... the Council? They will not object?”

"They will object to anything we choose. But let us choose what suits us, and what cannot be used to political gain. The open sky, the setting sun, and the evening stars. Can we ask for any more than that?"

The poetry of her words pulled at him, and he found the suggestion less ridiculous than he had before. There was something... undeniably appealing about it. Something that spoke directly to him.

“I have one condition,” he said finally, a smile tugging at his lips. He squeezed her hand. “We perform the ceremony on your barge. At sunset.”

Finally, a smile crossed her face and her eyes warmed. "How did you know I'd gotten a new barge? It was supposed to be a secret."

Thranduil looked rather satisfied with himself. “By your daughters’ account, it is a very fine barge. Though Tilda informed me we weren’t supposed to talk about it.” The children had been very forthcoming, once they’d gotten themselves going. What had prompted the disclosure of the barge he couldn’t recall. Perhaps Tilda had been trying to impress him with the most delicious secret she knew, as children often do.

Lyra chuckled, shaking her head. "She would. I'll need to have words with that daughter of mine. Alright. Aboard my barge, then. It can be ready this evening."


	14. Not Quite Eloping

The low-slung craft bobbed gently on the lake before them, moored to the new pier jutting from the shore with its freshly stained boards and sturdy fir pilings. Not long ago in this very spot, half-drowned refugees had clambered up the gravelly strand, fleeing the dragon's inferno. Now the only echo of that day was the sky, burning fire-bright and casting a ruddy glow over the water.

"Look at the lights!" Tilda gasped, grabbing her sister, face radiant with excitement. It seemed Lyra had hung lanterns all along the transverse beam of the mast, glowing all the brighter now the sun was going to rest. As they drew closer, their wagon bouncing along the fresh cobblestones toward the lake, Thranduil saw that lanterns lined the pier and winked from every recess on the boat. It was far more beautiful than he'd imagined.

Even his attendant ceased fussing with the king's hair, overcome with the scene before them. Earlier, hopes of crafting his lord's enviable tresses into a masterpiece of plaits had been dashed. Now he understood. And so Thranduil's hair hung loose at his back, adorned only with the daintiest mithril circlet. In the same way, the king wore only the simplest of his robes, a green brocade shot with silver threads. It was as the Dragonslayer wished.

There was, as yet, no sign of Lyra herself, even as the wagon came to a stop before the pier.

"Maybe she's in the hold," Sigrid suggested, answering Thranduil's unspoken question.

"Maybe she's  _ hiding _ ," Tilda whispered, giggling. 

"Or maybe I was just gathering a few more things." There was a warm smile in Lyra's tone, and the girls whirled and gasped with delight as their mother stepped onto the dock, moving toward them with a sedate pace, enforced by the long, heavy skirt of her pale green dress. It was slightly discolored at the hem, as though she'd walked through wet grass, and in her hands she carried a cluster of bright flowers. She even smiled as she stepped down onto her barge, swaying with the motion of the water as naturally as if it were an extension of herself.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."

"We only just arrived." Thranduil disembarked the wagon, his attendant frantically gathering up the trailing hem of his robes as he went, Sigrid and Tilda tumbling out behind them. 

The ease of the smile on Lyra's face stirred the Elvenking’s heart - it was lovely to see and he thought he could never tire of it. The dress was plain, of course, nothing out of step with Lyra's nature, but it softened her, making it plain she did indeed possess a womanly figure beneath the oversized coat she so often wore. He could tell she wasn't particularly comfortable in it, with its long, restricting skirts, but it favored her, bringing out a side he did not often see. 

Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze from her, again taking in the gently rocking barge with its row of swinging golden lights, their reflections dancing across the water.

"It is beautiful, my love," he pronounced softly, turning to study her face again. Perhaps it was simply the warm reddish glow of the setting sun, but she looked positively radiant. "Is the official here yet?" 

"He was aboard when I left. If he's wandered off, I'll be cross with him." Lyra chuckled softly and set the flowers down in a dusty jar as she approached the small cabin that would have served as her quarters while aboard. "Ned? You're still ready, aren't you?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," grunted a deep, rich voice from within. A portly man emerged a moment later, his substantial weight causing the barge to bob under his steps. He was passing middle age, and bore the shiny red scars of a survivor of the Second Desolation. All the same, he had a friendly smile and wore the fine wool that passed as rich raiment in Dale.

Spotting Thranduil and Lyra's children, his smile widened. "Excellent. Gather 'round, then, gather 'round, and we can get this show on the road. Or on the Lake, I suppose."

Thranduil waved away his attendant, who would have happily spent the entire wedding arranging his lord's robes so they pooled "just so" upon the deck of the barge. This was all a good deal messier than any normal royal matrimony would have been, and the Elvenking was pleased to let it be so. None of the trappings mattered, in the end.

He took Lyra by the hand and accompanied her to the bow, from which sprouted the rugged figurehead of a fish. A bright lantern had been set upon a hook nearby, providing just enough illumination for them to see (without competing with the moon and stars). 

Tilda, Sigrid, and the two Elves who had accompanied the group gathered further down the deck, close enough to hear the vows, but far enough to offer a little privacy.

The officiant cleared his throat, squinting at an open page of the small book in his hands. The deck rocked gently in the quiet, water lapping peacefully at the sides of the barge as they waited. Casting a glance out from the boat, Thranduil could see the newly rebuilt Esgaroth resting like a glowing island in the midst of the moonlit expanse. It touched him unexpectedly, the thought of new life - new hopes and dreams - rising from the ashes and rubble.

"Before we begin," he said, meeting Lyra's gaze, "I would offer a gift." He nodded to his attendant, who leapt at the chance to be useful, returning in a flash with a small wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. He presented it to Thranduil with a bow.

"I once tried to offer you something similar," the Elvenking explained, turning again to Lyra, "but I see now it was not for want of another you clung to the old one." He smiled, offering her the parcel. "Perhaps you'll forgive me and my young accomplices for its recent disappearance once all is revealed." Sigrid smothered a giggle in her sleeve, though Tilda was less successful in hiding her mirth.

When Lyra stripped off the velvet wrapping, she found her husband's old coat. Except that it had now been cleaned and mended in ways that were all but impossible for any but an elven tailor. Thranduil had insisted that it receive respectful handling, and that in its cleaning, its particular smell should not be altered, nor anything adjusted beyond the necessary. (The tailor had begged to size it down to fit Lyra, but Thranduil forbade it.) After all, it was not the coat itself she loved, but the memory of him it had once belonged to.

Lyra gasped, then blinked against the wetness in her eyes. She held the coat reverently, then hugged it tightly to herself, looking up into Thranduil's face. She was lost for words.

"I thought..." The rest of her words were choked off, and she laughed quietly, too overwhelmed for any sort of explanation. Eventually, the Dragonslayer managed a smile. "Thank you. This is... wonderful."

Thranduil had worried she would take his gesture the wrong way, so relief washed over him like the mist now blowing in off the water. 

"Perhaps you would like to wear it?" he suggested. Her dress was hardly substantial enough to ward off the night's chill, and he had a hunch the coat might put her more at ease. 

"If you don't,  _ I _ will," put it the portly officiant, good-naturedly. "I forgot how cold and miserable this Lake is." 

"Don't call my Lake miserable," scolded Lyra, slipping into the coat and pulling it tight around her. The holes had been so expertly patched, she could hardly tell where they had been. It was almost new again. She could even feel some new lining inside, which made it warmer, and silently blessed her husband to be.

"I didn't bring anything for you," she muttered, reaching for Thranduil's pale hands and drawing him to her so they stood before the man she'd called Ned.

"You two sure you're ready?" he asked, his smile taking on a serious cast as he met Lyra's gaze. He seemed... protective of her. And why wouldn't he be? She had saved his life and hundreds of others when she slew the dragon.

"Don't be silly, Ned. Of course I'm not ready. I wasn't ready the first time either, but that worked out, didn't it?"

Ned chuckled. "Good point. Well, if there aren't going to be any more last minute surprises, I'll make a start. Lord Thranduil, please clasp the hands of your bride." 

The Elvenking did, his movements gentle and graceful as always. Her hands were a little cold in his own, more from nervousness than the chill, he thought. He'd have been lying to say he didn't feel the same way. Everything was about to change in dramatic ways, and this was the point of no return.

He caught her eyes again, and smiled reassuringly. Together, they'd get through this. 

There was a beat of solemn silence, and Lyra's bright eyes met his, burning with... what? Emotion was hot and very near the surface, but it was difficult to say if she was anxious or excited.

"These vows are the same we've traded on the Lake time out of mind," intoned Ned solemnly. "Our grandparents and their grandparents have given their pledge just this way, so they might remember, and so we might not forget."

The man's jowls quivered in the orange lantern light as he looked at Thranduil with a sort of challenge, framed by lines that hadn't been apparent in his jovial face until the evening had deepened around them.

"Will you, Thranduil, swear to uphold her word, support her family, provide for her home, and cherish her life as dearly as your own? Can you keep a promise to be honest even in times of great stress, to respect her wishes even when they're not your own? Will you nurture and protect this union between yourself and this woman, even at the expense of your own comfort? For as the Lake is cold and deep, as the sun ever rises in the east, and as the wind comes ever from the north, no man can keep a wife he sells for the price of his barge and a cheap laugh. Speak your pledge so all may hear it."

Thranduil pondered the various pledges mentioned. In the Elven custom, such vows were made by the father of the groom and the mother of the bride, and tokens exchanged on their behalf. The marriage was only finalized in the consummation, the vows secondary to the physical act that would serve to tie their souls together. But Lyra was not an elf, and this was not the Woodland Realm. He had chosen to abide by the local custom, that which would be most seemly in the eyes of her people.

"I offer my word and vow," he answered at last, his eyes fixed on hers. His voice was low and grave, weighty and considered. He would not speak such things lightly, for it was said Eru Ilúvatar watched over the making of oaths. "As the Two Rivers come together in the Lake, there to become one, we two will be united as long as life endures. As the nets are mended each day, so will I ever seek to repair what divides us. As beauty is found in the scales of a perch, so too will I find beauty in the mundane. And as life persists beneath the ice in winter, so too will I press on through whatever hardships may come. These vows I take in the sight of those assembled, beneath the watch of my ancestors, and before the eyes of the Valar themselves." 

Lyra blinked furiously, tears glistening in her eyes as she swallowed hard, gripping his hands. Those, she thought, were words to live by. Ned seemed surprised, too, and it took the officiate a moment to recover his voice.

"I think you know us better than we thought you did, my lord," he said softly, a note of awe in his deep voice. Then he shook himself and turned his gaze on his queen. "Now, Lyra my girl. Will you swear to obey, respect, love, and cherish your husband as you do this lake, your people, your barge, and your freedom? Think carefully before you answer."

Lyra swallowed again, and let out a breathless laugh as she looked up into Thranduil's face. "With... with all my heart," she whispered, the words almost smothered by the tears she refused to shed. She couldn't summon anything more eloquent than that, and found herself relying already on Thranduil's silver tongue to make up for her brevity.

Lyra's response - brief as it was - gladdened Thranduil beyond words, and he gave her hands a little squeeze. She was so beautiful, caught up in the moment, her responsibilities and troubles and grief temporarily set aside. He thought he could never tire of seeing her smile, or hearing her laugh.

Ned, also absorbed in the happiness of the Dragonslayer, smiled warmly. "Then, as the words are spoken time out of mind among us, we join you together, as the joining of tin and copper make bronze. Should the Lake run dry, or the Mountain fall, or snow come in summer, or flowers in winter, nothing but death shall come between those we unite this day." 

There was a moment's hesitation in him as he looked at Lyra, then at Thranduil, and snapped fingers with a soft 'pay attention to me' gesture. "You're not alone yet, lovebirds. Go ahead and kiss her if you must, but we've a meal to see to." He was grinning and trying to hide it in his own beard as he leaned around Thranduil, making the barge rock slightly as he looked for Lyra's daughters, who were hugging one another and making quiet, joyous squeaking sounds. "Sigrid? Is everything ready?" 

"It's all in the cart, Master Ned," she called back, grinning from ear to ear. "Kept it nice and hot for you." 

Lyra didn't hear a word of it. She was looking up at Thranduil - her husband - and marveling that she'd ever been afraid of this. Or... maybe it had been the fuss they were making about the dress and the location and the politics that had frightened her. This wasn't about royalty or slaying dragons or running Dale. This was just about her little family, and making it a little bigger. 

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes still damp with unshed tears. 

Thranduil lifted her hand, pressing it to his lips. While he dearly wished to act upon Ned's suggestion, he remembered all too well her reaction before when he'd been a bit... impulsive. The consideration seemed lengthy to him, but in reality must've occupied no more than a few seconds. In the end, he abandoned caution, catching Lyra into a heady kiss. In the heat of his blood, the world around him seemed to rush away into breathless silence and stillness, leaving just the two of them and the combined beating of their hearts. 

Lyra stiffened, but only for a moment. She shivered, tensed, then accepted his kiss. She wasn't terribly good at kissing him back, but there was genuine heart in what she offered, opening herself to him in a way that might have been indecent were they not already married. The woman had been an ironbound chest keeping her treasures safe within. Now he had the key, and exposed her vulnerability to the chill night air. If anyone made amused comments about the need to breathe, neither Lyra nor Thranduil heard, even as they separated with soft gasps. 

The Dragonslayer held tight to the front of her husband's robes, blinking in disorientation as she caught her breath. "That... will take some getting used to," she whispered, seeming overwhelmed by the affection. Or maybe by the form it took. 

Thranduil grinned, caressing her hands. His heart was still racing wildly within him, thrilling at the memory of her lips and the taste of further passion to come.

Ned cleared his throat; his face said he was caught between propriety and amusement. "The meal is served. Share your first repast as husband and wife." He gestured beyond them to the cabin entrance, which stood open, golden light diffusing through the thin veil of mist.

The small assembly applauded, Sigrid grinning from ear to ear, Tilda laughing and tossing little yellow wildflowers into the air (she'd spent half the day collecting them from the hill above Dale). 

Lyra blushed, seeming only then to realize they'd had an audience, but she didn't resist when Thranduil steered her into the cabin. There were two chairs side by side at the table, and benches for their guests, and though the Dragonslayer somehow managed to regain her composure, she also never released Thranduil's hand. Throughout their meal, she stayed in contact with him, touching his arm or hand or knee as they enjoyed the hot food and happy chatter of their guests. Even Thranduil's attendant, drawn into the wedding feast against his will, relaxed as time passed, unable to resist the cheerful banter of Master Ned, Sigrid, and Lyra. They were a family, and even he, servant though he was, had become part of it for this night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note on the writing of the wedding vows: 
> 
> Neither Loki nor I are married, so neither of us have made promises of this nature to another person. That said, we believe firmly that vows should be taken very seriously, so we've done our best to be genuine in writing these here. We would love to hear what you think of them, so we might adjust our approach to future wedding scenes.


	15. Wedding Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much sappy romance. No smut.

When at last the meal had concluded, Thranduil took his bride by the hand and led her out again to the deck of the barge, where in the bright moonlight, the mist seemed to glow. A moment's discussion resulted in Master Ned volunteering to convey the children back home in his own cart, which was waiting further down the shoreline, and the attendant reluctantly agreeing to accompany them, if only to avoid becoming an unwanted third.

And so at last, The Elvenking and his Dragonslayer found themselves together on the front bench of the wagon, alone beneath the wheeling stars. The former did not yet give the horses rein, and the poor beasts stamped impatiently. One gave a forlorn sigh, glancing back as though she couldn't imagine what the hold up was.

"I thought," said Thranduil, presently, "we might share this together before we return." And he produced, from a molded leather sleeve behind the bench, a bottle of elven wine. The handblown glass gleamed blue in his hand. He reached behind the bench once more and retrieved a small crate, in which had been lovingly packed a set of bronze goblets engraved with graceful vines and leaves.

He pressed one into Lyra's hand with a smile. Finding the corkscrew where it dangled from the sleeve, he uncorked the bottle with the impressive technique of one well-practiced, and filled her goblet half-full before attending to his own. Setting the bottle aside, he raised his goblet in toast.

"To you, my love." He took her hand again, caressing it softly. "The Slayer of the Last of the Great Fire Drakes. The Queen of Dale. And now, the Queen of my Heart." 

Lyra took a deep breath, held his hand in her own, and drank, though not deeply. That lesson was one she had already learned during her brief stay in the Woodland Realm.

"Everything is altered," she murmured, looking first down into her goblet, then up at the vaulted heavens. "Everything is changed. Two years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of any of this." A touch of grief rendered her tone uncertain, like the ragged edge of a brave but worn banner. The stars glittered in her eyes as she stared up at them, as though seeking an answer, or perhaps seeking the question.

At length, her gaze dropped again to meet his, and Lyra smiled faintly at him. Her husband. A moment passed, and it was as though temptation hovered between them, a physical thing stirring the cool air with insubstantial wings. All at once, overcome by embarrassment, Lyra looked down again, remembered her wine, and drank.

Thranduil found in her brief expression what he was looking for. He set his goblet beside him and waited for her to finish her next sip, feeling in himself already how the elven wine took the edge off the night's chill. Then he pivoted on the bench, his left hand slipping gently to frame her face as he pulled her once more into a tender kiss. 

She fumbled slightly as she set her own goblet down without breaking contact with him. Yes. This was what she'd wanted, though it was hard to admit, even to herself. Grasping fistfuls of his robe, she dragged herself closer to him, and for several glorious minutes, Lyra Dragonslayer, Queen of Dale, lost herself in the desire for her husband.

They were interrupted by the impatient stamping of the horses, though, and the woman pulled back, breathless and flushed, eyes surprisingly dark in the moon-gilded night.

Thranduil sat back reluctantly, only mildly out of breath. Her obvious desire was like a gust of wind to the flame of his own, and he thought it best to restrain himself now if they were to avoid a public spectacle. Not that the idea didn't tantalize.

"Perhaps... we might return to the guest rooms?" he suggested, his voice low and uncharacteristically husky. He cleared his throat, and his face was perhaps the most raw and unguarded Lyra had ever seen it. The fixedness of his jewel-bright gaze upon her - the deep yearning in the midst of its focus - was almost heart-breaking, for no one can love so well who has not lived millennia without it.

"If there were someone to take the horses, I'd get you on this barge," she growled, but took a breath to calm herself. "Let's go back to the city. Your rooms or mine, it makes little difference." Without a thought, she half drained her goblet, then held it between her knees as she took up the reins herself, urging the horses into motion.

"I'll probably regret drinking that so quickly in a few minutes, but I think it's time I relax a little." Lyra flashed him a smile, promising much to come that night.

Thranduil, astonished and impressed, laughed and finished his drink as well, quickly gathering up the wine and its accessories to stop them rattling around the wagon. They made impeccable time back to Dale, as Lyra seemed rather bent on getting them there quickly. The horses and wagon were entrusted to the stable master with the clipped speech of single-minded folk, and shortly the Elvenking and Dragonslayer found themselves back in his guest room, clinging to each other like Beren and Lúthien before the seat of Thingol.

Thranduil's attendant, however, was not Thingol, and rapidly excused himself, looking a little disturbed. The married couple scarcely noticed.

The Elvenking was practically trembling, his usual self-possession misplaced. His eyes - ordinarily inhumanly blue - seemed dark now as he held her, gazed at her, holding himself back so that she might lead as she willed. He had not forgotten what she'd said in the wagon, which was quite unmistakable and bold for her. But despite the urgings of his blood, he had a mind to proceed at the pace she set. 

Lyra shivered against him. The wine had certainly done its work. Many words might have described her in that moment, but  _ relaxed _ certainly fit the bill rather well. She did, however, have the presence of mind to shrug out of Hal's old jacket, tossing it onto a chair. 

"The rest," she said suggestively, "I leave to you. But remember, we have all the time in the world tonight. No need to rush." 

And with that wonderfully articulate speech, she kissed her husband, happy to lose herself for the night. Happy to make herself entirely and unequivocally his. 


	16. Breakfast in Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It amuses me to no end that, according to Loki, Thranduil prefers to sleep in the nude.

Perhaps it was the sound of folk stirring in the house. The squeak of a floorboard. The soft clatter of pans down in the kitchen. Or maybe it was the creeping finger of light poking between the curtains as the sun rose.

Whatever it was, morning had come, and consciousness crawled back into Lyra's aching head as her body reminded her she wasn't 17 anymore, and late nights with a lover and more wine than was good for her would come back with a vengeance. Still... she couldn't bring herself to regret it. 

Not even the wine.

The Dragonslayer opened her eyes, aware of the feeling of Thranduil's arms about her, the silky warmth of his skin against her back a blessing against the chill of the morning.

"Good morning."

His voice rumbled through her, and Lyra shivered, turning over so she could look into his face. Wonder of wonders, his hair was a tousled silver-blond mess, and she found she liked it that way.

"How did you know I was awake?" she murmured, touching his cheek gently.

"Your breathing changed." His eyes twinkled, and Lyra wouldn't help but smile. He was hers.

The door squeaked open, and the woman jerked the blanket up around her neck.

"Mum? Are you decent? We brought you breakfast."

It was Sigrid. And by the excited giggles punctuating those words, Tilda was with her.

Thranduil - who was ordinarily accustomed to sleeping however he pleased, which generally meant unclothed - shot up and shrugged into the handiest robe at his bedside, pulling it closed in the front just as the two girls practically tumbled in the door. This was due to the heavily laden trays they were bearing, balanced with all manner of delicacies they must have specially prepared. There was tea, buttered toast, smoked fish, steaming porridge, poached eggs, a plate piled with rashers of bacon. The smell was heavenly, even if the presentation wasn't.

Tilda's giggles erupted anew when she caught sight of the scene before her, the rumpled Elvenking desperately holding closed his robe, the wild-haired Dragonslayer clutching the blanket like a shield.

"Morning, Mum," said Sigrid, setting her larger, heavier tray on the bedside table. 

"Morning, Da," Tilda offered a rather shocked Thranduil, setting her tray next to him. Then the two - in what was rapidly becoming clear was a coordinated effort - pressed a kiss to their appointed parent's cheek. The youngest was beaming, her grin trying to split her face surely as the light struggled to split the curtains.

Sigrid smoothed Lyra's hair, looking well-pleased. "Like your surprise?" 

"I'd like it better if you'd given me a chance to dress first," she growled, but reached up with her free arm to pull her daughter into a hug. "Stars above, I love you two so much. Now get out of here so I can make myself decent and eat this marvelous breakfast you brought us." Lyra's eyes were on the milky drink, only partially spilled on the tray. She recognized it as a concoction her cook used to soothe headaches and hangovers, which she would very much appreciate right now.

Tilda's kiss had surprised the Elvenking immensely, and while Lyra good-naturedly chastened the eldest, a momentary flash of a little blond-headed elfling passed before his eyes. Then it was gone, and before him was Tilda. He smiled at her. She grinned in delight, pivoting on her heel to go after her sister. 

The door safely shut once more, the Elvenking turned a fond glance on his bride, her long brown hair thoroughly mussed and tangled. Thoughts of his own hair lanced into him suddenly, and he surprised himself with a laugh. It felt so good, he indulged in another, and before Lyra had quite extricated herself from the tangle of blankets, he had her again in his arms.

"What kind daughters we have," he said next to her ear, giving it a gentle nip that made her twitch. 

Lyra sucked a breath through her teeth, shivering. We. He'd said 'what kind daughters  _ we _ have.' She liked that. She liked his affection even more. But she did want to dress and eat. She was hungry. Dinner seemed half an age ago. "You're insufferable," she muttered, but turned to face him and kissed him fiercely. "If you're half the man I think you are, we'll have children enough between us before long, and Tilda will be dreadfully jealous she's not the baby anymore." And at the look of shock on his face, she laughed, slipping free of the blankets at last and pulling on clothing hastily to guard against the chill in the air. 

After their luxuriant breakfast, Thranduil's attendant returned. He only just managed to hide his horror at Thranduil's mussed hair as he handed the Elvenking a missive that had just come in, which related some troubling developments near the northern borders of the Woodland Realm. While most of the Necromancer's ilk had been destroyed or driven hence, it would be a process of many years to see it eradicated entirely.

Lyra excused herself shortly thereafter to see to her own duties, and so business separated them for some hours. That is how it would be. She was still the Queen of Dale, and he the protector of his own people. Thranduil summoned the errand runner who had brought the missive, gathering more detail on the state of things. Some travelers had been ambushed by a nest of spiders long thought cleared - perhaps some eggs escaped detection and had hatched, or some of those they'd driven forth from that nest had returned.

When Lyra joined him for a late midday meal, he was standing in the doorway overlooking his balcony.

"I'll have to return to the Woodland Realm," he said, unhappily. "Tomorrow, at first light." 

"Seems reasonable." Lyra didn't seem distressed as she shrugged out of her coat. "When things are calm here, I'll return the visit."

She smiled a little as she took a handful of his robe and pulled him close enough to kiss. "Let's make the most of tonight."


	17. Almost 2 Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely self-indulgent. If you don't like soft familial love and pregnancy, then this probably isn't a chapter for you. I very much enjoyed it, though.

It seemed ages had passed. Centuries, at least. Lyra stood at the window, the warm touch of sunlight welcome in the chill spring air that wafted gently through the room. He'd planned it, of course. Secured her in his realm when she could no longer travel for the season. Thranduil had that insufferable smirk about his lips these days that said he was triumphant. 

Of course, she would let him have it. 

And it had really only been two years. No... not quite that. One year and... ten months? Something like that. It didn’t seem worthwhile to count the days. Not when each day was as pleasant as hers had been of late. 

There were no doors in their suite, the easier for him to sneak up on her. But she was as attuned to his presence as a human could be, and  _ felt _ him enter the room on silent feet. Of course, if she was wrong and she called out to him, there was no one to hear, so no harm done. 

"Trying to surprise me again?" she asked, and turned. He was much closer than she'd thought, and she jumped when she perceived his smile so near to her own, lurching back against the window. 

He wouldn't let her fall. Not even gently, now. His hands shot out, one to grasp her elbow, the other to wrap about her thickening waist. He didn't need to say he'd succeeded. His blue eyes twinkled down at her, and she slapped lightly at his chest. 

"You did that on purpose." 

In spite of herself, her free hand dropped to the curve of her pregnant belly, and Lyra saw his eyes follow the gesture protectively. 

When he looked up at her face again, there was mischief in his eyes. "I do not apologize for my own nature." And he pressed a kiss to her cheek, which quite smoothed things over. This, for him, was the happiest season he could recall, for now he had the perspective of past failings, and would not repeat them. Short it might be in the span of years, but he would treasure each moment all the more. 

His hand joined hers where it rested on her belly, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thought of any new names?" 

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Names again? We already have one for each gender - isn't that enough?" Looking up at him, she saw the look in his eyes and sighed. It was easy to read the gentle "what if" in his expression. What if they thought of something even better? What if there was more than one child? And besides... she could tell he enjoyed it.

"No, I hadn't thought of any new names. Have you?"

Thranduil tucked a loose strand behind his wife's ear. "You'll give me my way so easily, my love? Letting me name them in Sindar without a fight?"

It didn't particularly matter to him either way, though surely tongues would wag amongst his own people if the Elvenking's child bore a name of Human origin. His own father, Oropher, would have thrown a fit if he’d known Thranduil even considered it an option, but that made the prospect strangely alluring. 

"I never said I wouldn't fight," she corrected with a challenging smile, then huffed when she felt the babe kicking, somewhat to the right of where Thranduil's hand rested. "By the Lake that spawned me, he kicks like a horse." 

Thranduil could feel it, and while it was hardly the first time he’d had the privilege, he would always marvel at it. Then her words fully penetrated his distraction. He caught her gaze, a question in his face.

“ _ He _ ?”

"It's only a guess," she said, trying to inject a dismissive tone into her voice. But her guess had been right about Tilda, too, though all the women of the town had insisted she was carrying too low for it to be a girl. It had been, though. Still, she knew he would be able to tell it had been more than just a guess. 

“Of course,” he said, offering an unconvinced nod. A moment passed between them, and he studied her face as though it were a message written in an unknown code.

“I did not come here only to startle you, my love,” he admitted at last, and she wondered how she hadn’t seen his purpose more clearly before. He glanced toward the far wall of the room, absently tracking the movement of a rustling tapestry. “Legolas. He has returned. He... wishes to meet you.”

The woman tensed a little, an expression of concern flickering across her face. She had seen Thranduil's son briefly during the Battle, but not since then, and it made her nervous to think the elf might be purposefully avoiding her.

"You're sure?" Lyra glanced out the window, then at the tapestry, as though she thought Legolas might jump out from behind a curtain and say "boo."

Thranduil was privately amused by her spooked expression. This woman had felled a charging dragon from the sky, yet feared a meeting with his mild-mannered son.

“He wishes to know the members of his family,” the Elvenking explained. “All of them.”

She looked up into his face and saw the twinkle of silent laughter in his eyes. It wasn't hard to follow his thoughts from there. "The dragon," she said pointedly, "wasn't going to be part of my family." But with a sigh, she leaned on his arm and let him take her where he would. Already she could feel the ache in her back and ankles that said she'd been standing for too long.

"I want him to think well of me," Lyra admitted in an undertone. "I know he means a lot to you."

“Rest, my love.” Thranduil guided her to a chair, easing her into it. “He is waiting outside.”

As if on cue, Legolas walked in the open door, exchanging a nod with his father. He was a little thinner than he’d been when last their paths crossed, his face a little more grim. His traveling garb had been exchanged for softer robes in silk, which had the result of making him slightly less intimidating.

“Lady Lyra,” he greeted softly, offering the Dragonslayer a small bow. He considered a moment, his gaze fixed on a point on the stone floor before him. “I wanted to express my gratitude for... for all you’ve done. You’ve truly made this place feel like...” He trailed off a moment, his blue gaze deepening. “Like it has not felt in as long as I can remember.”

Lyra's mouth tightened slightly, but there was sadness in her eyes as she considered the elf prince. "Don't call me lady," she said, trying to soften her tone from her usual blunt challenge to something a little less confrontational. "We're family. You can just use my name." 

Legolas’ face relaxed noticeably and he smiled a little, closing the gap between them. This could not have been easy for him.

Thranduil’s heart warmed as he watched the exchange, joy unlooked-for stirring within him. How long had he been distant from his own son? Aloof upon his throne, drowning himself in business or wine. And now - now things would be set right. Spring had come at last within him, the breaking of ice and the renewal of life.

“Family,” Legolas repeated at last, yearning gleaming in his eyes. “It has been... too long. You don’t know how I’ve hoped for this.”

"I bet you were hoping for someone a little less mortal," she said with a smile and faint wince as the babe began to kick again. "Speaking of, I think someone else wants to meet you. Here, give me your hand." She reached for him, palm up, inviting him to feel the baby as he squirmed in her belly. 

His long fingers rested upon the taut swell of her stomach a moment, and then he twitched, looking up at her in surprise. His gaze shifted to Thranduil, then back to Lyra.

“How soon?”

Lyra smiled. "We still have a few more weeks before this little one is ready to come out into the world. I think he'll take after his dad." She glanced at Thranduil, feeling pride at being the one that had won his trust. His love. His protection. Her gaze flicked back to Legolas.

"I think... we were just talking about names. Did you have any suggestions?" 

Legolas’ brows knit with momentary consideration. Then he shook his head with a chuckle.

“A complicated business, and I’d best stay out of it. I’d rather not be blamed later if the little one dislikes it.”

Lyra groaned and swatted playfully at her new son's hair. "I'd hoped you'd at least add something interesting to the list."

Her new... son.

Lyra's heart squeezed suddenly and she remembered being pregnant with Bain, and the way her first husband had teased her about wanting spiced flatbread with dinner every night. How he'd fussed toward the end. The expression of pride on his face when at last he held his baby boy.

Eyes closed, she gripped Legolas' hand with unexpected force, a look of pain passing across her face.

The blonde studied her, concern pervading his features. Thranduil caught the interaction, alarm edging his words as he moved quickly to her side.

“Are you well, my love?”

Legolas sidestepped a little to allow his father access to her, though he didn’t release Lyra’s hand.

Lyra took a shaky breath and made herself open her eyes again. The image of Bain's pained smile in the Battle, his last message to his sisters... they haunted her. But here was Thranduil. He knew. He understood. He had stopped her from throwing it all away. And he stood by her when the pain came back.

"I'll be alright," she whispered. No tears came. Not this time. But there would be other days. The babe, sensing her distress in the rapid beat of her heart, squirmed energetically in her belly. Lyra took comfort in that. Bain wasn't with her anymore, but this little one was very much alive.

Legolas was still there. He looked concerned. Had he known? Could he? "My son. Bain. He... I... lost him. In the Battle." Her words were halting as she did her best to explain "I was just thinking... he's not here anymore. But I still have a son. If you'll have me." She gave Legolas a faint smile, then looked up at Thranduil, searching for understanding, maybe even approval.

There was something like awe in the elf's face, an honor unexpected. Thranduil could read his son’s thoughts well enough. If Lyra was now to take him as son, then he would have a mother again. And while Bain and the Woodland Queen could never be replaced, something of the grief tied up in their loss might be eased in the gaining of a son to a mother, and a mother to a son.

The Elvenking strove to maintain composure, oddly stirred by the thought. He had not anticipated anything of this sort might occur. The best he'd hoped was that Legolas would make peace with the Dragonslayer's place in his father's household. But both were more open-hearted than he'd given them credit for.

Legolas nodded, finally, allowing a warm, easy smile to have its way.

"I'd be honored," he said, placing a hand over hers where it still grasped his. "Mother." The word shone in his eyes, a pain and longing he'd borne his many years, never hoping that he might at last have what he'd ever been denied. 

Lyra laughed, the sound bordered with the hint of tears. Pulling him closer, she hugged Legolas fiercely. "Thank you."

It was a little awkward anymore, to embrace another person. Legolas was pressed tight to her belly and party to the excited gyrations of the child soon to be his little brother. The Dragonslayer released him, looking a little embarrassed, but pleased nonetheless. Turning her attention to Thranduil, she grasped his hand and tugged the Elvenking down to her level so she could steal a kiss, smiling impishly in spite of the grief still glittering in her eyes.

"You've given me so much. I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

Thranduil shook his head. “No,  _ meleth nín _ . It’s the debt I owe  _ you _ that might never be paid.”

And he kissed her again, soundly enough that Legolas blushed and had to look away.

"Don't make promises you don't have time to keep," she warned him, a little flushed, and pushed him gently away. "I need to eat something soon. Legolas, dear, help me up."

When she was on her feet again, she pressed gingerly at her lower back groaning softly. "Come on, you two ridiculous creatures. Let's have something to eat."


	18. Epilogue; "I was right"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! This is the final chapter! I hope you enjoyed it. We certainly did.   
> TW: Pregnancy and Birth and Breastfeeding

The elk's hooves beat a frantic staccato, echoing the pounding if his own heart as they flashed through the forest faster than was safe. Barrelling headlong through a meadow, his steed leapt over a thicket, urged on by his breathless command. "Faster. Run faster."

How long would it have taken the message to reach him? Ten hours? Longer? How long had it been since he'd left his company behind to clean up the last of the highwaymen? Too long. And his wife, having their child.

Legolas was with her. He'd promised he would stay. They'd known it could happen any day now. But what if he was too late? What if the pendant he'd made for her was flawed, and the child's hungry spirit drained her? What if...?

They burst into the open beside the river and the elk pelted along the path, chest heaving, fur soaked with sweat. Thranduil vaulted from his back as the elk staggered to a halt outside the gates, and the guards let him in without question though they traded a knowing look. He might have told them off if he didn't have more important things to attend to.

The Elvenking threw open the door to their suite and there sat Legolas, two scandalized healers, and...

Lyra was very still and pale on the bed. Thranduil's heart lodged in his throat. No. Not Lyra. Not now. The air smelled of blood and sweat, but Legolas was silent and one of the healers held a tiny squirming bundle.

The Elvenking hardly noticed all these things, so complete was his focus as he rushed to her side, the healers fairly diving out of his path.

“Lyra.” Tenderness and breathless fear lurked in equal measure in his voice as he took his wife’s cold hand, her face reflected in the sky of his eyes. “Forgive me, my love. I’m here.”

Lyra's eyes fluttered open, and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "You're late," she whispered, her eyes drifting closed again. "But I was right. It's a boy."

The healer approached cautiously, holding the tiny babe in her arms, swaddled in a soft blanket. "It was a hard birthing. The lady should rest for several days at least."

Lyra's smile, faint as it was, brought great relief upon Thranduil, but the allaying of his fears opened the door to an overwhelming flood of other emotions, mingling together freely and tumbling over one another. He strove to master himself, turning his attention to the bundle the healer held, and the little face peeking out from the folds of the blanket. 

A sound that was midway between a laugh and a sob shuddered from him, and soon his eyes had welled such that he could no longer see. He dabbed at them, reaching to take the child into his arms.

"He favors you," he managed, cradling the babe with surprising skill for one long unpracticed, his voice low and filled with something like awe.

"Wouldn't know," whispered Lyra, seeming to wilt into her cushions, as deflated as an empty water skin. "I'll see him... tomorrow."

Legolas looked up at his father, unusually stoic, but with a glitter of pride in his eyes. In Thranduil's arms, the babe squeaked in infant protest and squirmed in his blanket. Was he hungry? Did he want to be set down? At this age, it was impossible to tell.

Thranduil elected to bounce him gently, which momentarily ended further protest. He found it odd that Lyra didn't wish to hold the babe, but she was very weak, and perhaps needed the time now to recover. Strong as she was, he had to remember she was not an elven woman, and did not possess an immortal constitution.

Soon, another squeak issued from the bundle, which soon turned to a stream of tearful sounds, and Legolas and Thranduil exchanged a meaningful glance. They both knew. But Lyra did not wish to nurse the child right now, and Thranduil would not ask her to. He turned and whispered in the nearest healer's ear. Surprise was plain on her face, but she nodded and strode swiftly to the door, shutting it behind her as she went. 

Lyra sighed and opened her eyes again. They lacked her usual energy and luster, but she focused on her husband and the tiny child he held. "Oh, alright," she muttered, and struggled to sit upright. That effort left her white as milk and panting, but she managed with Legolas' help. "Give him here. No rest for the wicked, as they say."

"Are you certain, my love?" Thranduil bobbed the baby gently, though his demands only seemed to grow more insistent. "I've sent the healer for...." He trailed off, hoping she wouldn't be offended if he'd misjudged her wishes. These were... delicate matters. 

Lyra huffed softly. "He needs to eat, even if he doesn't have a name yet. And this is part of motherhood, as you well know. The child comes first." She lifted her hands to accept her son, but offered Thranduil a tired smile. "Thank you for thinking of me. It's been a very long day."

With a nod, the Elvenking handed over the squirming infant, which action alone seemed enough to quiet the babe. Then he stepped aside, allowing the remaining healer to assist, and soon the child was lodged securely at Lyra's bosom and nursing with gusto beneath a cloth.

"He has a healthy appetite," Legolas commented with a relieved chuckle.

"Much like another little princeling I recall," Thranduil added, and a faint rosy hue traveled up the young elf's cheeks.

When the second healer returned, the Elvenking met her at the door, explaining that the wet nurse she'd brought would no longer be required. The healer looked rather relieved, as did the other elven woman, who plainly disliked leaving her young one in the care of another while she came to fulfill this duty.

Thranduil returned to Lyra's bedside, where the infant had apparently lulled himself to sleep. The Elvenking aided Lyra in reclining once more, easing her down gently so the babe wouldn't be disturbed. Looking upon the two of them nestled peacefully together filled him again with inexpressible joy, and he smiled. His fears had been for naught. All was well that ended so.

He dismissed the others, though Legolas went only reluctantly, casting one final glance at the little bundle on Lyra's chest. The healers quickly gathered up supplies, medicines, and soiled linens, departing quietly. Then Thranduil settled into a chair, resting a warm hand upon Lyra's shoulder.

"Rest well,  _ meleth nin _ . I will be here when you wake." 

Her hand drifted out from under the blanket and fetched up against his, her pale fingers wrapping about his. Though her eyes were closed, there was a mixture of pain and contentment on her face.

"I miss him," she whispered. "I miss both of them." The weight of the sleeping babe on her chest was so like the memory that pressed down on her. The look of pride in Thranduil's blue eyes. The crooked grin on Hal's face. The way Bain had squalled until he was swaddled in the  _ right _ blanket. It all blended together.

But this little one... he needed her. He was present and alive and helpless, and that warm softness filled her with the urge to protect and care for him, even if she was too exhausted to think in a straight line.

"We'll always miss them." Thranduil's deep voice curled around her, and she opened her eyes to look up at him, seeing an echo of her grief in his face.

"But we don't have to let the grief rule us," she finished as he had told her... how many times now? Too many. Her eyes drifted closed again, too heavy to keep open. "Thank you, my love."

Silence descended on them, and for a little while, she was on the cusp of sleep. But she remembered something before the dreams swallowed her. "Don't forget... to eat something... skin and bone...."

And as she slipped at last into sleep, the sound of his soft laughter caressed her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be taking a short break between this fic and the next one, and will try to wrap up some of the fics I've started but haven't finished. If you have a suggestion, you can find me on Tumblr or Instagram under the name "Inkfire." My icon is the same everywhere, so feel free to ping me if you have any questions or prompts.


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